p 


JESS 


lifts 


THE  'POETICAL  WORKS-  OF 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL 


<£tutton 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON    AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   AND    COMPANY 


1906 


C 

COPYRIGHT    1867   BY   E.   R.    SILL 

COPYRIGHT   1887,  1889,  1899,  T902,  AND   1906  BY   HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   &    CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


SS84 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE 

THE  first  attempt  to  gather  Mr.  Sill's  poems  into  a  sin 
gle  volume  was  made  in  1902,  when  Messrs.  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  and  Company  issued  a  limited  edition, 
combining  the  three  small  volumes  previously  pub 
lished  by  them,  and  adding  a  few  pieces  never  before 
collected.  The  compiler  of  that  edition,  Mr.  William 
Belmont  Parker,  has  also  edited  the  present  Household 
Edition,  and  has  here  arranged  all  the  poems  as  nearly 
as  possible  in  their  chronological  order.  This  new  and 
more  satisfactory  grouping  has  prevented  his  making 
full  use  of  the  group  titles  that  have  become  familiar 
to  Mr.  Sill's  readers,  but  he  has  retained  them  as  far 
as  the  conditions  permit.  The  kind  cooperation  of 
Mrs.  Sill,  and  of  other  surviving  friends  of  the  poet, 
has  also  made  it  possible  to  enlarge  the  collection 
materially,  so  that  it  contains  all  of  his  poetical  writ 
ings  that  it  is  thought  desirable  to  preserve. 

BOSTON,  September,  1906. 


CONTENTS 

UNDERGRADUATE    AND    EARLY   POEMS  PAGE 

THE  POLAR  SEA     .  •       i 

MORNING    .  •            3 

MIDNIGHT      .  •        5 
FAITH 

Music   .  -9 

DREAM-DOOMED.  I2 

DESPAIR  AND  HOPE  •      16 

COMMENCEMENT  POEM  •          18 

RETROSPECT         .  .      aa 

DISCONTENT    .         .  a6 

THE  FOUNTAIN  .  •     27 

SOLITUDE         .  .28 

THE  FOUR  PICTURES      .  •      3° 

POEMS  WRITTEN    BETWEEN    1862   AND  1867 

THE  RUBY  HEART:  A  CHILD'S  STORY  33 

To  CHILD  ANNA   ...  -37 

A  FABLE  :  TO  CHILD  ANNA         .  39 

THE  CREATION        ....  -43 

THE  FIRST  CAUSE       ...  44 

SEMELE ......  .46 

CLASS  SONG  :   1864      .          .  49 

THE  GAME  OF  LIFE        .  •     5° 

MAN,  THE  SPIRIT        .  52 

THE  FUTURE      .  •     58 

THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT      .  .         .         61 


viii  CONTENTS 

A  PARADOX         .......  66 

HOME      .          .          .          .          .          .          .  •       .  67 

THE  CHOICE  ....  ...  70 

WISDOM  AND  FAME     .          .          .         .          .          .  71 

SERENITY        ........  73 

THE    HERMITAGE,    AND    OTHER    POEMS 

THE  HERMITAGE          ......          74 

SUNDOWN        .         .          .          .         .          .         .         .109 

THE  ARCH          .         .         .         .          .         .         .no 

APRIL  IN   OAKLAND         .          .          .          .          ,          .in 

To  CHILD  SARA  .          .          .          .          .          .114 

EASTERN  WINTER  .          .         .         .         .         ,          .    1 1 7 

SLEEPING     .          .          .          .         .         .         .         .        119 

STARLIGHT     ......  .120 

A  DEAD  BIRD  IN  WINTER  ....        122 

SPRING  TWILIGHT  .          .          .         .         .         .          .124 

EVENING     .         .  .  .         .         .125 

THE  ORGAN  ........    127 

LOST  LOVE          .          .         .          .          .         .          .129 

A  MEMORY  .         .         .         .          .         .         .         .131 

LIFE  .  133 

FERTILITY      .          .         .         .         .          .         .         .134 

THREE  SONGS      .....  135 

THE  WORLD'S  SECRET   .     •    .         .  .         .136 

SEEMING  AND  BEING    .         .  .          .          .138 

WEATHER-BOUND    ....  .   140 

SUMMER  AFTERNOON  ......        142 

A  POET'S  APOLOGY 144 

A  PRAYER  .......        145 

A  DAILY  MIRACLE 146 

INFLUENCES          .......        147 

POEMS  WRITTEN   BETWEEN    1867   AND    1872 
A  BIRD'S  SONG      ....  .         .    148 


CONTENTS  ix 

THE  NEWS-GIRL          .  ...       149 

THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  HEART.  .  .  .  .151 
A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE  .  .  .  .  .153 
A  TROPICAL  MORNING  AT  SEA  .  .  .  .154 
THE  PICTURE  OF  THE  WORLD  ....  157 
FOR  THE  GIFTS  OF  THE  SPIRIT  ....  159 
THE  Two  WAYS  .  160 

THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN     ....    162 

THE  LOST  BIRD 176 

SUMMER  RAIN         .......    178 

THE  BELLOWS-BOY      .         .         .         .          .         .179 

THE  NEW  YEAR 182 

THE  TRUANT      ....  .          .        186 

SPRING  . 188 

TRANQUILLITY  .         .         .         .         .         ,190 

IN  A  FAR  COUNTRY         .  ....    192 

THE  WONDERFUL  THOUGHT        .         .         .         .193 

To   "THE  RADICAL"     ......    196 

THE  INVISIBLE  .  ....        198 

A  DRIFTING  CLOUD        ......   201 

A  REPLY    ........       202 

THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  WINDOWS         ....   204 

A  FOOLISH  WISH  .     .          .         .          .         .          .212 

THE  SECRET  .......   214 

POEMS    WRITTEN    BETWEEN    1872   AND   1880 

THE  THINGS  THAT  WILL  NOT  DIE  .  .  .  216 
A  CHILD  AND  A  STAR  .  .  .  .  .219 

REVERIE 221 

Is  IT  SAFE  ?            .......  222 

_  FIVE  LIVES          . 224 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW       ......  227 

GOOD  NEWS        .                            ....  229 

SUNDAY           ........  232 


CONTENTS 

DARE  You  ?  .          .          .          .          . 

CHRISTMAS  IN  CALIFORNIA  .         .         .         .         .236 

BUT  FOR  HIM 240 

NATURE  AND  HER  CHILD 242 

THE  FOSTER-MOTHER 243 

THE  LINKS  OF  CHANCE 244 

Two  VIEWS  OF  IT 245 

To  A  FACE  AT  A  CONCERT          .  .         .       24$ 

THE  THRUSH m   247 

EVERY-DAY  LIFE          .  ....       248 

AT  LAST ^ 

FOREST  HOME 250 

THE  SINGER'S  CONFESSION  .  .  .  .  .253 
A  MYTH  OF  FANTASY  AND  FIRST  LOVE  .  .  255 
THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  PILOT.  .  .  .258 
AN  ANSWER  .....  .  2$2 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  MUSICIAN 265 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM  .  .  .  .267 
A  RESTING-PLACE  .......  272 

THE  MYSTERY    .  274 

THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER 275 

OPPORTUNITY      .....  .        277 

AN  ASPIRATION      .......   278 

THE  NORTH   WIND      .          .          .  2g2 

THE  TREE  OF  MY  LIFE.          .  ...    284 

THE  DESERTER    ....  .          .        2g6 

A  CALIFORNIAN'S  DREAMS       .  .  287 


THE    VENUS    OF    MILO,  AND    OTHER    POEMS 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 290 

,     FIELD  NOTES  .  297 

CALIFORNIA  WINTER  . 


3°7 


CONTENTS  xi 

THE  LOVER'S  SONG         ......  309 

RECALL       ...  .310 

THE  REFORMER      .         .         .          .         .                   .  311 

DESIRE  OF  SLEEP          .         .         .         .  312 

EVE'S  DAUGHTER    .  -314 

A  HYMN  OF  HOPE     .                                               .  315 
AN  ANCIENT  ERROR       .         .         .         .                   .318 

AN  ADAGE  FROM  THE  ORIENT    .                   .         .  320 

To  A  MAID  DEMURE      .                   .                   .         .  321 

HERMIONE ....                   ...  322 

I.    THE  LOST  MAGIC        .         .         .         .         .  322 

II.    INFLUENCES 323 

III.  THE  DEAD  LETTER      .                   ...  323 

IV.  THE  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT          .         .          .  324 
TRUTH  AT  LAST     .          .          .          .          .          .          .  325 

UNTIMELY  THOUGHT  ......  326 

SERVICE           .         .                            ....  327 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  MT.   SHASTA  BY  KEITH  .          .  328 

"  QUEM  METUI  MORITURA?"          ....  331 

THE  SINGER        .          .         .         .          .         .          .332 

WORDSWORTH          .          .          .          .          .          .          -334 

THE  WORLD  RUNS  ROUND          .          .         .         .  336 

CARPE  DIEM  ...                             ...  340 

AMONG  THE  REDWOODS       .....  341 

AT  DAWN      ...                             ...  344 

HER  FACE  ........  345 

LATER  POEMS 

A  MORNING  THOUGHT 346 

STRANGE      ........  347 

MOODS  .......                   .  348 

THE  BOOK  OF  HOURS          .....  349 

"WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS"           ....  350 


xii  CONTENTS 

TRANSLATIONS 

FOUR  SONNETS  FROM  SULLY  PRUDHOMME  .        352 

SIESTA          ........    352 

THE  CLOUD    .......        353 

IN   SEPARATION    .          .          .          .          .          m         .353 

L'  AMOUR  ASSASSINE  .  .  .  .  .354 

MY  PEACE  THOU  ART  (after  Schubert's  "  Du  bist  mem' 


-  ....    355 

MIR  AUS  DEN  AUGEN  (from  a  Polish  song  of  Chopin)        356 
THE  ORACLE  .......    357 

TEMPTED    .  .....        359 

*  FORCE    .  .......    36o 

INFIRMITY  .          .......        352 

HER  EXPLANATION  .         .         .         .         .         -364 

WARNING    ........        365 

AT  EARLY  MORN  .  .....    366 

SUMMER  NIGHT  .....  .        367 

His  NEIGHBOR  AS  HIMSELF     ...  .368 

NIGHT  AND  PEACE       ......        369 

THE  PHILOSOPHER  .....  .370 

His  LOST  DAY    .         .          .          .          .         .         .371 

FULFILLMENT          .         .          .          .          .         m         .373 

THE  RETURN  TO  ARCADIA  ....        375 

THE  BLOTTED  PAGE        .          .          .         .         .          .380 

LIVING        ........        3gl 

BLINDFOLD      ......  ^g2 

WlEGENLIED  .  .  .  .  .  .  .384 

SIBYLLINE  BARTERING     ......    3g5 

THE  AGILE  SONNETEER        .....        386 

MOMENTOUS  WORDS       ...  .  387 

THE  CRICKETS  IN  THE  FIELDS     .         .         .         .388 

ALONE  .........    3g9 

BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN  WINTER        .         .         .*         .391 
ILLUSION         .......          -392 


CONTENTS  xiii 

THE  POET'S  POLITICAL  ECONOMY        .          ...        393 

A  SUBTLETY  .  .  ...    394 

THE  DIFFERENCE         ......        395 

A  SONG  IN  THE  AFTERNOON  .....   396 

A  SUPPLICATION  .          .          .          .          .         -398 

SPACE     .  .  ...    399 

ONE  TOUCH  OF  NATURE     .....        400 

THE  COUP  DE  GRACE     ......  402 

APPRECIATED       ,  403 

ROLAND  .  .  .  .  404 

CLOUD  TRACERY          ......        407 

THE  LIFE  NATURAL        ......  408 

To  THE  UNKNOWN  SOUL     .....       409 

REPROOF  IN  LOVE 410 

EVEN  THERE       .  .  ...       411 

ON  SECOND  THOUGHT    ......  412 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES    .  415 

INDEX   OF  TITLES  .   4*0 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL  (Photogravure)       Frontispiece 
HOUSE    WHERE    SILL    WAS    BORN,    WINDSOR,    CONN., 

1841  .  32 

SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY,  CALIFORNIA  .  74 

GLEAMS  NOW  AND  THEN  A  POOL  so  SMOOTH  AND  CLEAR    .      84 

A  BRIGHT  HILLTOP  IN  THE  BREEZY  AIR       .  .  .  23  2 

THE  WHITE  EARTH-SPIRIT,   SHASTA!    .  •     3z8 

AMONG  THE  REDWOODS        .          .          •          .          •        341 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL  was  born  at  Windsor,  Con 
necticut,  April  29,  1841,  and  died  at  Cleveland,  Ohio, 
February  27,  1887.  The  forty-six  years  of  his  life 
furnish  a  record  of  quiet,  modest  service,  unbroken  by 
striking  incident  or  conspicuous  action.  Teaching  was 
his  profession,  though  he  did  not  at  once  adopt  it. 
There  was  a  period  after  his  graduation  from  Yale,  in 
1 86 1,  when  he  was  quite  uncertain  of  his  life  work. 
He  spent  some  years  in  California  at  various  forms  of 
business.  Then,  for  a  time,  he  attended  the  Divinity 
School  at  Harvard.  Later,  for  a  year,  he  tried  the  ex 
periment  of  writing  for  a  living.  But  in  1868  he 
determined  upon  teaching,  and  gave  to  it  the  best  of 
his  remaining  years.  He  began  characteristically  at 
the  bottom,  taking  a  district  school  at  Wadsworth, 
Ohio,  later  teaching  at  Cuyahoga  Falls  and  at  Oak 
land,  California,  and  in  1874  he  accepted  the  chair  of 
English  Literature  at  the  University  of  California, 
where  he  taught  until  failing  health  put  an  end  to  his 
teaching,  in  1882.  He  was  happily  married  in  £867 
to  his  cousin,  Elizabeth  Sill,  who  survives  him.  They 
had  no  children,  which,  perhaps,  left  him  more  com 
pletely  free  to  devote  himself,  as  he  was  fond  of  do- 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 

ing,  to  his  students,  who  treasure  his  memory  with 
an  unusual  and  tender  regard. 

From  his  undergraduate  years  he  had  been  writing, 
chiefly  in  verse,  and  contributing  in  a  casual  way  to 
various  periodicals,  but  keeping  his  authorship  rigor 
ously  subordinate  to  his  teaching.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  say  that  he  was  "  a  teacher  who  occasionally 
wrote  verses,"  and  there  was  no  affectation  in  his 
modesty ;  for  he  seldom  cared  to  sign  his  poems,  but 
sent  them  out  either  unsigned  or  signed  only  by  a 
nom  de  plume.  Gradually,  however,  his  work  began  to 
gain  recognition  and  increasing  attention.  It  had  been 
done  so  quietly  that  few  realized  how  considerable  in 
amount  it  was.  In  fact  it  was  not  until  after  his  death 
that  anything  like  an  appraisal  could  be  made  of  it, 
and  most  of  his  readers  will  probably  be  surprised  to 
find  his  work  so  extensive  as  is  indicated  by  this 
volume. 

The  body  of  Sill's  work  has  three  stages  —  the  first 
marked  by  the  angry  rhetoric  and  unrestrained  melody 
of  his  "  Class  Poem,"  the  piece  entitled  "  Music," 
and  the  poem  of  his  first  California  period,  "  Summer 
Afternoon,"  with  its  soft  assonances  which  suggest  the 
influence  of  Mrs.  Browning.  The  work  of  this  period 
is  worth  reading  chiefly  as  showing  the  course  of  Sill's 
development.  To  it  belong  practically  the  whole  of 
the  first  volume,  "The  Hermitage  and  Other  Poems," 
published  in  1868. 

The  second  period  covers  the  years  from   1867  to 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xix 

1880,  including  almost  all  the  years  of  his  teaching 
service.  The  poems  of  this  period  seem  to  have  lost 
the  sensuousness  of  the  earlier  time,  and  not  yet  to 
have  gained  the  clear  tone  and  firm  texture  of  the 
later  period.  They  are  more  subjective,  more  austere, 
and  at  times  suggest  the  schoolmaster.  Some  are 
frankly  pedagogic  in  tone  and  substance,  as  "  The 
Schoolhouse  Windows,"  "  The  Clocks  of  Gnoster- 
Town,"  and  "  Berkeley  Greets  New  Haven."  Among 
them  are  the  keenest  poems  of  irony,  "  Fantasy  and 
First  Love,"  "  The  Tree  of  my  Life "  and  u  Five 
Lives."  To  this  period  belong  also  two  or  three  of 
the  strongest  poems  of  ethical  impulse  that  he  wrote. 
The  best  known  of  all  his  poems,  "  The  Fool's 
Prayer,"  of  which  Professor  Royce  has  made  such 
impressive  use  in  the  concluding  chapter  of  "  The 
Spirit  of  Modern  Philosophy,"  was  first  published  in 
"The  Atlantic  Monthly"  for  April,  1879,  and  the 
other  poem  which  is  so  often  coupled  with  it,  "  Op 
portunity,"  appeared  in  "  The  Californian  "  in  No 
vember,  1880. 

"  Five  Lives "  and  "  The  Fool's  Prayer  "  are  the 
two  poems  which,  perhaps,  best  sum  up  the  two 
tendencies  of  Sill's  mind  during  the  middle  period, 
the  time  of  crystallization  of  his  philosophy  of  life. 
They  show  his  keen  sense  of  unwelcome  truth,  on 
the  biological  and  the  moral  side;  his  courageous  ac 
ceptance  of  it  and  his  scornful  rejection  of  subterfuges, 
which  he  put  forcibly  in  "  Truth  at  Last." 


xx  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

The  third  and  closing  period  of  Sill's  work  was  all 
too  short.  It  began  with  his  return  from  California 
to  Ohio,  in  1883,  and  ended  with  his  most  regrettable 
death,  in  1887.  -^  was  a  Peri°d  of  rapid  maturing^ 
both  in  thought  and  craftsmanship.  He  did  not  enter 
new  fields.  He  had  no  new  message,  but  he  gave 
the  old  message  without  uncertainty  or  wavering  or 
confusion.  Now  that  it  came  clear  and  plain  the 
message  was  perceived  to  be  Emersonian,  Arnoldian, 
if  you  please,  Tennysonian,  perhaps.  At  any  rate  all 
three  strains  were  in  the  music.  But  it  was  sung  by 
a  new  voice, —  a  voice  that  gained  steadily  in  flexi 
bility,  in  timbre,  and  in  tone.  Now  for  the  first  time 
the  singer  learned  to  use  its  full  range.  For  the  first 
time  he  ventured  into,  humor  and  delicate  irony  and 
graceful  raillery.  To  this  period  belong  "  Momentous 
Words,"  "  The  Agile  Sonneteer,"  "  The  Poet's  Polit 
ical  Economy,"  and  "  A  Subtlety,"  all  tinged  with 
irony,  to  be  sure,  but  all  lighted  with  genuine  humor. 
As  he  went  on  he  touched  the  life-long  themes  more 
firmly  and  more  confidently.  His  message  was  always 
ethical :  work,  fear  not,  trust  God,  hope  evermore 
and  believe ;  but  it  gained  in  grace  and  persuasiveness. 
There  remained  an  undertone  of  wistfulness,  but  it 
was  merged  in  confident  faith,  so  that  "  A  Second 
Thought,"  — which  seems  to  have  been  the  last  poem 
he  wrote  —  faces  the  future  with  a  front  as  brave  as 
Browning's  "  Prospice." 

Most  of  his  poems  were  not  published  in  book  form 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxi 

until  after  his  death,  but  two  volumes  appeared  in  his 
lifetime.  "  The  Hermitage  and  Other  Poems'*  was 
published  by  Leypoldt  and  Holt  in  1868,  and  "The 
Venus  of  Milo  and  Other  Poems "  was  privately 
printed  at  Berkeley,  California,  in  1883.  Following 
his  death  there  were  published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin 
and  Company  "Poems'*  in  1887,  "The  Hermitage 
and  Later  Poems"  in  1889,  and  "  Hermione  and 
Other  Poems"  in  1900.  In  1900  there  also  appeared 
under  the  imprint  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company 
a  volume  of  prose  selections  taken  chiefly  from  his 
contributions  to  the  "  Atlantic,"  and  entitled  "  The 
Prose  of  Edward  Rowland  Sill."  No  life  of  Sill  has 
yet  been  published,  though  the  Memorial  Volume 
privately  printed  at  Berkeley,  California,  contains  an 
account  of  his  life,  accompanied  by  a  number  of  his 
letters. 


UNDERGRADUATE   AND 
EARLY    POEMS 

THE    POLAR   SEA 

AT  the  North,  far  away, 
Rolls  a  great  sea  for  aye, 
Silently,  awfully. 
Round  it  on  every  hand 
Ice-towers  majestic  stand, 
Guarding  this  silent  sea 
Grimly,  invincibly. 
.    Never  there  man  hath  been, 
Who  hath  come  back  again, 
Telling  to  ears  of  men 
What  is  this  sea  within. 
Under  the  starlight, 
Rippling  the  moonlight, 
Drinking  the  sunlight, 
Desolate,  never  heard  nor  seen, 
Beating  forever  it  hath  been. 

From  our  life  far  away 

Roll  the  dark  waves,  for  aye, 


THE    POLAR   SEA 

Of  an  Eternity, 
Silently,  awfully. 
Round  it  on  every  hand 
Death's  icy  barriers  stand, 
Guarding  this  silent  sea 
Grimly,  invincibly. 
Never  there  man  hath  been 
Who  could  return  again, 
Telling  to  mortal  ken 
What  is  within  the  sea 
Of  that  Eternity. 

Terrible  is  our  life  — 

In  its  whole  blood-written  history 

Only  a  feverish  strife ; 

In  its  beginning,  a  mystery  — 

In  its  wild  ending,  an  agony. 

Terrible  is  our  death  — 

Black-hanging  cloud  over  Life's  setting  sun, 

Darkness  of  night  when  the  daylight  is  done. 

In  the  shadow  of  that  cloud, 

Deep  within  that  darkness'  shroud, 

Rolls  the  ever-throbbing  sea ; 

And  we  —  all  we  — 

Are  drifting  rapidly 

And  floating  silently 

Into  that  unknown  sea  — 

Into  Eternity. 


MORNING 

I  ENTERED  once,  at  break  of  day, 

A  chapel,  lichen-stained  and  gray, 

Where  a  congregation  dozed  and  heard 

An  old  monk  read  from  a  written  Word. 

No  light  through  the  window-panes  could  pass, 

For  shutters  were  closed  on  the  rich  stained-glass  ; 

And  in  a  gloom  like  the  nether  night 

The  monk  read  on  by  a  taper's  light. 

Ghostly  with  shadows,  that  shrank  and  grew 

As  the  dim  light  flared,  were  aisle  and  pew ; 

And  the  congregation  that  dozed  around 

Listened  without  a  stir  or  sound  — 

Save  one,  who  rose  with  wistful  face, 

And  shifted  a  shutter  from  its  place. 

Then  light  flashed  in  like  a  flashing  gem  — 

For  dawn  had  come  unknown  to  them  — 

And  a  slender  beam,  like  a  lance  of  gold, 

Shot  to  the  crimson  curtain-fold, 

Over  the  bended  head  of  him 

Who  pored  and  pored  by  the  taper  dim ; 

And  it  kindled  over  his  wrinkled  brow 

Such  words  :   "  The  law  which  was  till  now  ;  " 

And  I  wondered  that,  under  that  morning  ray, 

When  night  and  shadow  were  scattered  away, 


MORNING 

The  monk  should  bow  his  locks  of  white 
By  a  taper's  feebly  flickering  light  — 
Should  pore,  and  pore,  and  never  seem 
To  notice  the  golden  morning-beam. 


MIDNIGHT ' 

UNDER  the  stars,  across  whose  patient  eyes 

The  wind  is  brushing  flecks  of  filmy  cloud, 

I  wait  for  kindly  night  to  hush  and  calm 

The  wrangling  throng  of  cares  and  discontents, 

The  tangled  troubles  of  a  feverish  brain. 

From  far-off  church-towers,  distance-muffled  bells 

Are  slowly  tolling  dying  midnight's  age. 

A  surging  wind  sighs  through  the  shadowy  trees, 

Like  surf  that  breaks  on  an  invisible  beach, 

And  sends  a  spray  of  whispers  on  the  air. 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  wings  of  Time 

Sweep  by  me.    Voices  of  the  murmuring  Past 

Chant  a  low  dirge  above  my  kneeling  heart. 

I  hear  —  or  is  it  only  the  wild  wind 

Telling  its  ghostly  dreams  to  the  dark  trees  ?  — 

Amid  its  pauses,  as  irresolute 

And  purposeless  it  gropes  in  fitful  gusts 

Throughout  the  darkness,  sounds  of  years  ago. 

Sometimes  it  seems  the  rustle  of  a  step, 

Which  made  my  heart  beat  in  those  years  ago  — 

Which  makes  me  weep  to  listen  for  it  now ; 

1  The  editor  has  retained  this  poem  as  illustrating  Sill's  early  manner,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  several  lines  from  it  reappear  unchanged  in  later 
poems;  see  pp.  95,  125,  126. 


MIDNIGHT 

Sometimes  a  little  foolish  whispered  phrase, 

That  you  would  smile  at,  if  one  uttered  it  — 

At  which  I  smiled  even  as  I  treasured  it ; 

A  warm  breath  brushing  lightly  by  my  cheek  — 

A  low-toned  fragment  of  a  sad  old  song  — 

I  almost  think  them  real,  so  crazed  am  I, 

Till  the  shrill  wind  whirls  them  in  scorn  away, 

And  shrieks  its  laughter  far  into  the  gloom. 

Oh,  brooding  night !   thou  mockest  so  bitterly 

With  thy  wild  visions  and  thy  weird-winged  wind, 

That  I  could  well  believe  thee  all  unreal, 

And  our  whole  world  only  a  phantasy, 

And  we  far-slanted  shadows  of  some  life 

That  walks  between  our  planet  and  its  God. 

Oh,  stars  of  Heaven  !   will  ye  not  comfort  me  ? 

Voices  of  brother-men  from  long  ago, 

Come  up  to  me,  clasped  in  the  leaves  of  books, 

That  tell  how  they  too  dreamed  the  dream  of  life, 

And  how,  over  Earth's  flitting  phantom  forms 

Ye  shone  serene  and  steadfast  as  to-night. 

Unseal,  unseal  the  secret,  for  whose  hour 

Ye  wait  in  hushed  and  breathless  watchfulness 

Till  God  reveal  the  mystery  of  His  will. 

Is  it  not  time  to  tell  us  why  we  live  ? 

So  many  years  we  sleep,  and  wake,  and  sleep, 

While  —  like  some  Magian  through  the  mysteries 

Leading  in  fear  the  blindfold  neophyte  — 

Time  leads  us  dimly  on,  till  angrily 

Tired  life  would  turn  and  throttle  its  stern  guide, 


MIDNIGHT  7 

Till  he  should  tell  us  whither  and  how  long. 
But  Time  gives  back  no  answer,  and  the  stars 
Burn  on,  cold,  hushed,  and  changeless  as  before, 
And  we  go  back  baffled  and  stolidly 
To  the  old,  weary,  hollow-hearted  world ; 
To  the  old,  endless  search  for  life  in  death  — 
The  restless,  hopeless  roaming  after  rest. 


FAITH 

THE  tree-top,  high  above  the  barren  field, 
Rising  beyond  the  night's  gray  folds  of  mist, 

Rests  stirless  where  the  upper  air  is  sealed 
To  perfect  silence,  by  the  faint  moon  kiss'd. 

But  the  low  branches,  drooping  to  the  ground, 
Sway  to  and  fro,  as  sways  funereal  plume, 

While  from  their  restless  depths  low  whispers  sound : 
"  We  fear,  we  fear  the  darkness  and  the  gloom ; 
Dim  forms  beneath  us  pass  and  reappear, 
And  mournful  tongues  are  menacing  us  here." 

Then  from  the  topmost  bough  falls  calm  reply  : 
"  Hush,  hush  !      I  see  the  coming  of  the  morn  ; 

Swiftly  the  silent  Night  is  passing  by, 
And  in  her  bosom  rosy  Dawn  is  borne. 
JT  is  but  your  own  dim  shadows  that  ye  see, 
'T  is  but  your  own  low  moans  that  trouble  ye." 

So  Life  stands,  with  a  twilight  world  around  ; 
Faith  turned  serenely  to  the  steadfast  sky, 
Still  answering  the  heart  that  sweeps  the  ground, 
Sobbing  in  fear,  and  tossing  restlessly  — 

"  Hush,  hush  !    The  Dawn  breaks  o'er  the  Eastern 
sea, 

'T  is  but  thine  own  dim  shadow  troubling  thee." 


MUSIC 

THE  little  rim  of  moon  hangs  low  —  the  room 
Is  saintly  with  the  presence  of  Night, 
And  Silence  broods  with  knitted  brows  around. 
The  woven  lilies  of  the  velvet  floor 
Blend  with  the  roses  in  the  dusky  light, 
Which  shows  twin  pictures  glimmering  from  the  walls 
Here,  a  mailed  group  kneels  by  the  rocky  sea  — 
There,  a  gray  desert,  and  a  well,  and  palms  ; 
While  the  faint  perfume  of  a  violet, 
Vague  as  a  dream  of  Spring,  pervades  the  air. 
Where  the  moon  gleams  along  the  organ-front, 
The  crooked  shadow  of  a  dead  branch  stirs 
Like  ghostly  ringers  gliding  through  a  tune. 

Now  rises  one  with  faintly  rustling  robes, 
And  white  hands  search  among  the  glistening  keys. 
Out  of  the  silence  sounds  are  forming  —  tones 
That  seem  to  come  from  infinite  distances, — 
Soft  trebles  fluttering  down  like  snowy  doves 
Just  dipping  their  swift  wings  in  the  deep  bass 
That  crumbles  downward  like  a  crumbling  wave ; 
And  out  of  those  low-gathering  harmonies 
A  voice  arises,  tangled  in  their  maze, 
Then  soaring  up  exultantly  alone, 
While  the  accompaniment  wails  and  complains. 


io  MUSIC 

—  I  am  upon  the  seashore.    'T  is  the  sound 
Of  ocean,  surging  on  against  the  land. 
That  throbbing  thunder  is  the  roar  of  surf 
Beaten  and  broken  on  the  frothy  rocks. 
Those  whispering  trebles  are  the  plashing  waves 
That  ripple  up  the  smooth  sand's  slope,  and  kiss 
The  tinkling  shells  with  coy  lips,  quick  withdrawn  ; 
And  over  all,  the  solitary  voice 

Is  the  wind  wandering  on  its  endless  quest. 

—  A  change  comes,  in  a  crash  of  minor  chords. 
I  am  a  dreamer,  waking  from  his  dream 

Into  the  life  to  which  our  life  is  sleep. 
My  soul  is  floating  —  floating,  till  afar 
The  round  Earth  rolls,  with  fleece  of  moonlit 

cloud, 

A  globe  of  amber,  gleaming  as  it  goes. 
Deep  in  some  hollow  cavern  of  the  sky 
All  human  life  is  pleading  to  its  God. 
Still  the  accompaniment  wails  and  complains;  — 
A  wild  confusion  of  entangled  chords, 
Revenge,  and  fear,  and  strong  men's  agony, 
The  shrill  cry  of  despair,  the  slow,  deep  swell 
Of  Time's  long  effort,  sinking  but  to  swell, 
While  woman's  lonely  love,  and  childhood's  faith 
Go  wandering  with  soft  whispers  hand  in  hand. 
Suddenly  from  the  ages  one  pure  soul 
Is  singled  out  to  plead  before  the  Throne  ; 
And  then  again  the  solitary  voice 
Peals  up  among  the  stars  from  the  great  throng, 


MUSIC  ii 

Catching  from  out  the  storm  all  love,  all  hope, 
All  loveliness  of  life,  and  utters  it. 

Then  the  hushed  music  sobs  itself  to  sleep, 
And  all  is  still,  —  save  the  reluctant  sigh 
That  tells  the  wakening  from  immortal  dreams. 


DREAM-DOOMED 

A  MAID  upon  the  lonely  beach, 
All  in  the  silent,  summer  day, 
With  wide  blue  eyes  fixed  far  away, 

And  small  hands  clinging  each  to  each. 

All  day  she  wanders  by  the  sea ;  — 
What  are  the  ways  of  men  to  her, 
Whose  soul  is  busy  with  the  stir 

Of  never-resting  memory  ? 

For  there  had  glanced  a  passing  gleam 
Of  love  all  hopeless  on  her  way, 
And  life's  up-springing  April  day 

God's  hand  had  darkened  with  a  dream. 

The  mist  floats  on  the  desert's  face, 

And  lake  and  isle  all  lustrous  moulds, — 
But  when  withdrawn  its  billowy  folds, 

How  bare  and  desolate  the  place  ! 

V 

Why  should  she  live  ?  The  life  above 
Can  scarce  be  sadder  than  her  own ; 
But  shall  she  die  ?  For  death  alone 

Can  still  the  fluttering  wing  of  love.  , 


DREAM-DOOMED  13 

When  darkness  on  the  ocean  hangs, 
She  hears  the  loud  surf  tumbling  in, 
The  loose  stones  jostling  with  a  din 

Like  wild  beast  clashing-to  his  fangs. 

Under  the  leaden  morning  sky, 

She  sees  from  off  the  toppling  comb 
The  mad  wind  snatching  flecks  of  foam 

To  whirl  them  wildly  drifting  by. 

And  when,  as  daylight  disappears, 

The  large  moon  upward  moveth  slow, 
It  seems  to  waver,  shrink,  and  grow, 

Trembling  through  such  a  mist  of  tears. 

But  when  the  evening  zephyrs  blow 

A  music  borne  from  off  the  sea, 

She  mingles  with  the  melody 
A  plaintive  song,  all  soft  and  low. 


Calmly  the  night  comes  down  on  all  the  land, 
Faintly  the  twilight  glimmers  o'er  the  sea, 

Sadly  the  lingering  ripples  kiss  the  sand, 
So  sad  I  pace  the  beach  and  wait  for  thee. 

Soft  steal  the  muffled  inland  echoes  here, 

A  sound  of  church-bells  trembles  on  the  lea, 

So  softly,  muffled  memories  meet  the  ear, 
And  seem  to  mock  me  as  I  wait  for  thee. 


14  DREAM-DOOMED 

Solemnly  still  the  great,  calm  stars  glow  on, 
And  all  the  broad,  fair  heaven  leans  silently, 

While  slumberous  Ocean's  undulous  undertone 
Still  whispers  with  me  as  I  wait  for  thee. 

Upon  the  strand  where  life's  loud  surges  beat, 
My  footsteps  follow  where  my  hope  must  be; 

The  dull,  long  days  and  nights  break  at  my  feet  - 
Must  I  forever,  weeping,  wait  for  thee  ? 


Low  lowers  the  dull-eyed  winter's  day  — 

A  sullen  sky  the  ocean  mocks ; 

The  surf  beats  bitterly  the  rocks, 
Which  wintry  years  have  worn  away. 

Chafing  within  its  cragged  cage, 
The  wave  again  and  still  again 
Leaps  fiercely  up  its  length  of  chain, 

To  fall  back  foaming  in  its  rage. 

On  the  wet  sands,  with  elfish  hair, 
And  faded  fingers  tightly  clenched, 
And  vest  whose  folds,  all  weather-drenched, 

Leave  half  her  haggard  bosom  bare, 

She  stands  amid  the  spray,  alone. 
O  heavy  heart !   that  all  thy  years 
Hast  held  one  image  dim  with  tears, 

And  watched  it  while  it  turned  to  stone. 


DREAM-DOOMED  15 

So  wretched  stands  she  staring  there, 

As  if  the  desert  and  the  storm 

An*d  bitter  wind  had  taken  form, 
And  frozen  into  that  despair. 

And  looking  on  them  thus  I  seem 
To  understand  the  life  undone, 
The  life-long  wretchedness  of  one 

Whose  youth  was  withered  with  a  dream. 


DESPAIR   AND    HOPE 

WE  sailed  a  cruise  on  a  summer  sea  — 

I,  and  a  skull  for  company  : 

I  in  the  stern  our  course  to  turn, 

And  it  on  the  prow  to  grin  at  me. 

Over  the  deep  heaven,  hung  below, 

Whose  imaged  clouds  lay  white  like  snow, 

Glided  we,  as  the  tide  might  be, 

Slipping  swiftly,  floating  slow. 
Past  the  woods  all  living  green  — 

Save  by  the  marge  some  fading  tree, 
Whose  leaf,  so  early  autumn-touched, 

Would  make  the  skull  to  grin  at  me. 

Past  a  grove  of  fragrant  pine, 
From  whose  dusky  depths  of  shade 
Snowy  shaft  and  colonnade 

Marked  a  ruined  altar-shrine  ;  — 

And  the  skull's  grim  face  grinned  into  mine. 
Under  the  arch  of  a  vine-clasped  elm 

Leaning  off  from  the  mossy  land, 
Across  the  shallow  the  idle  helm 

Lightly  furrowed  the  silver  sand  : 
Down  the  slope  all  clover-sweet 

Danced  a  group  in  childish  glee  — 


DESPAIR   AND    HOPE  17 

Hissed  a  swift  snake  at  their  feet ;  — 
Then  the  skull  grinned  unto  me. 

Into  a  cavern  dim  and  dank 

Crept  we  on  the  creeping  tide ; 
Shapeless  creatures  rose  and  sank, 

Dripped  with  damp  the  ceiling  wide. 
Darker,  chiller  hung  the  air ; 

Scarcely  I  the  prow  could  see; 
But  I,  through  the  shadow  there, 

Felt  the  skull  still  grin  at  me. 

Out  of  the  cavern's  thither  side, 

Into  a  mellow,  morn-like  glow, 
Streams  the  ripple-curving  tide; 

Sounds  of  music  sweeter  grow  ; 
Odorous  incense,  softened  air, 
Melodies  so  faint  and  fair, 

Thrill  me  through  with  life  and  love  : 
And  all  suddenly  from  the  prow, 
Where  had  seemed  the  skull  just  now, 

Flutters  to  my  breast  a  dove. 


COMMENCEMENT  POEM 
I 

FOUR  years ! 

Four  waves  of  that  wide  sea  which  rings  the  world 
Broken  upon  the  shore,  eternity. 
Upon  whose  crests,  like  waifs  tossed  by  the  tide, 
We  neared,  touched,  floated  side  by  side,  and  now 
Sad  is  their  murmur  on  the  shadowy  sand, 
And  sad  our  parting  as  we  drift  away. 

2 

Four  years  ! 

Fled  like  the  phantoms  of  a  morning  dream  — 
A  strange,  fair  dream,  and  now  the  sun  has  risen, 
And  the  day's  work  begun.      Yet  blame  us  not 
If,  while  we  gird  ourselves,  we  linger  still 
Wistfully  musing  over  what  we  dreamed. 

II 

O  hours  of  Yale  —  vanished  hours  ! 
Memory,  sorrowfully  singing, 
Makes  a  far-ofF  sound,  like  ringing 
Of  a  chime  of  silver  bells, 
Whose  soft  music  sinks  and  swells, 


COMMENCEMENT   POEM  19 

Breathed  upon  by  a  breath  of  flowers  ; 
Fainter,  sweeter  fragrance  bringing 
Than  from  odorous  island-dells, 
Kissed  all  night  by  summer  showers. 


Ill 


Mornings  were  there,  richer  than  of  Eastern  story, 
When  the  dark,  wet  trunks  the  sun-bathed  elms 
uphold, 

Bedded  in  the  leaves  whose  lustrous  glory 

Half  was  sheen  of  emeralds,  half  of  lucent  gold. 


Evenings  when  the  sun  set,  like  a  king  departed 
Unto  other  lands  with  revel,  pomp,  and  light, 

While  the  queenly  moon,  deserted,  pale,  proud-hearted, 
Paces  the  still  corridors  of  the  stars  all  night. 

3 
Hours  of  golden  noonday,  when  the  blood  up-leaping 

Like  a  soft,  swift  lightning  pulses  through  the  veins ; 
Hours  of  shrouded  midnight,  when  the  soul  unsleeping 

Calm  self-knowledge,  wider  trust,  and  patience  gains. 

4 
Friendships  truer  than  all  woman's  brittle  passion, 

Love  that  in  its  fullness,  even  while  we  stand 
Here,  to  part,  has  only  stammering  expression, 

Dumb  and  half-embarrassed  clinging  hand  to  hand. 


20  COMMENCEMENT   POEM 

IV 

i 
Here  at  last  to  part  —  the  darkness  lying 

In  that  parting  not  as  yet  we  know ; 
Like  a  child  who  sees  his  father  dying, 

With  a  vague,  half-wondering  sense  of  woe. 

2 

As,  when  some  Beloved  has  departed, 

In  the  after  years,  unfelt  before, 
Haunting  wishes  vex  the  heavy-hearted,  — 

"  Would  to  God  that  we  had  loved  him  more  !  " 


So  we,  o'er  these  buried  years  low-bending, 
Shall  regret  each  lightest  cause  of  pain, 

Trivial  hurts  in  silent  heartaches  ending, 

Till  we  sigh,  "  Would  we  might  live  again  !  " 

4 
All  our  foolish  pride  and  willful  blindness, 

Darkening  round  us  like  a  cloud  of  dust, 
Careless  scorn,  where  should  have  been  all  kindness, 

Cold  suspicion  in  the  place  of  trust, 

5 
Many  a  word  we  might  have  left  unspoken, 

Many  a  deed  that  should  have  been  undone, 
Shall  reproach  us  from  each  treasured  token 

With  a  separate  sting  for  every  one. 


COMMENCEMENT   POEM  21 

6 

When  the  world  is  heavy  on  our  shoulders, 
And  the  heart  is  fretted  with  its  care, — 

When  the  glory  of  ambition  moulders, 

And  our  load  seems  more  than  we  can  bear, — 

7 
When  the  days  and  nights,  like  shuttles  weaving 

In  a  senseless  loom,  pass  to  and  fro, 
Sombre  hues  in  faded  patterns  leaving 

On  the  woof  of  life  that  lies  below, 


Through  the  dim,  long  years  old  forms  will  glimmer, 
Ghostly  lips  will  haunt  us  with  their  tone, 

Kind  eyes  will  look  forth,  and  seem  the  dimmer 
For  the  memories  brimming  in  their  own. 

9 
We  go  forth,  like  children  in  the  morning 

Scattering  to  spend  the  summer  hours,— 
Some  their  brows  with  laurel  wreaths  adorning, 

Some  to  saunter  through  a  field  of  flowers ; 


One  to  lose  his  way,  and  wander,  straying, 
Till  the  twilight,  frighted  and  alone, — 

One,  it  may  be,  weary  with  his  playing, 
Wending  home  his  footsteps  ere  the  noon. 


22  COMMENCEMENT    POEM 


But  whatever  fate  to  us  is  given, 

All,  when  day  is  done,  again  shall  meet, 

And  at  night-fall,  'neath  the  stars  of  heaven, 
Shall  be  gathered  at  our  Father's  feet. 


RETROSPECT 

Not  all  which  we  have  been 

Do  we  remain, 
Nor  on  the  dial-hearts  of  men 

Do  the  years  mark  themselves  in  vain  ; 
But  every  cloud  that  in  our  sky  hath  passed, 
Some  gloom  or  glory  hath  upon  us  cast ; 
And  there  have  fallen  from  us,  as  we  traveled, 

Many  a  burden  of  an  ancient  pain  — 
Many  a  tangled  cord  hath  been  unraveled, 

Never  to  bind  our  foolish  hearts  again. 
Old  loves  have  left  us,  lingeringly  and  slow, 
As  melts  away  the  distant  strain  of  low 
Sweet  music  —  waking  us  from  troubled  dreams, 
Lulling  to  holier  ones  —  that  dies  afar 
On  the  deep  night,  as  if  by  silver  beams 
Claspt  to  the  trembling  breast  of  some  charmed  star. 
And  we  have  stood  and  watched,  all  wistfully, 
While  fluttering  hopes  have  died  out  of  our  lives, 
As  one  who  follows  with  a  straining  eye 
A  bird  that  far,  far-off  fades  in  the  sky, 


COMMENCEMENT    POEM  23 

A   little   rocking   speck  —  now    lost  —  and    still   he 

strives 

A  moment  to  recover  it  —  in  vain, 
Then  slowly  turns  back  to  his  work  again. 
But  loves  and  hopes  have  left  us  in  their  place, 
Thank  God  !  a  gentle  grace, 
A  patience,  a  belief  in  His  good  time, 
Worth  more  than  all  earth's  joys  to  which  we  climb. 

VI 

The  pleasant  path  of  youth  that  we  have  ranged 
Ends  here  j   as  children  we  lie  down  this  even, 
But  while  we  sleep  there  is  a  stir  in  heaven  — 

A  hundred  guardian  angels  have  been  changed. 

Those  of  our  childhood  gently  have  departed 
With  its  pure  record,  writ  on  lilies,  sealed ; 

And  in  their  place  stand  spirits  sterner-hearted, 
To  grave  our  manhood  on  a  brazen  shield. 

VII 

i 

Well,  the  world  is  before  us,  —  let  us  go  forth  and 

live, 
God's  fair  stars  overhead,  and  the  breath  of  God 

within, 

Steadfast  as  we  may  amid  the  whirl  and  the  din  ; 
Let    us   challenge  the   fates, — what  answer  do  they 
give? 


24  COMMENCEMENT   POEM 

2 

Work,  work,  work  ! 
All  action  is  noble  and  grand  — 
Whirling  the  wheel  or  tilling  the  land, 
In  the  honest  blows  of  the  brawny  hand 
Is  the  kingliest  crown  of  living  won  : 

Work,  work,  work  ! 

3 

Ah  !  but  the  hollowness  will  lurk 
Under  the  shell  of  all  that  is  done. 

Where  is  the  labor  so  noble  and  great, 
Among  all  vanities  under  the  sun  ? 

What  is  the  grandeur  of  serving  a  state, 
Whose  tail  is  stinging  its  head  to  death  like  a  scorpion  ? 
To  simper  over  a  counter,  to  lie  for  a  piece  of  coin, 

To  be  shrewd  and  cunning,  to  cheat  and  steal, 

Business-like  and  mercantile,  — 
An  army  of  rats  and  foxes  —  who  will  join  ? 
Each  little  busy  brain  forever  at  work 

Webbing  out  its  mite  of  a  plan, 
Each  hypocritical  face  with  smile  and  smirk, 

Thinking  to  mask  its  spleen  from  another  man  : 
And  then  the  apish  mummery 
Of  the  thing  they  call  Society  ! 
And  its  poor,  sour  fools  that  smiling  stand, 

With  a  smile  that  is  overdone,  — 
With  a  hand  that  graspeth  each  man's  hand, 

And  a  heart  that  loveth  none. 


COMMENCEMENT   POEM  25 

And  the  mills  and  shops  whose  dull  routine 

Turns  God's  image  to  a  machine : 

Oh  !   it  makes  one  proud  of  our  civilization  — 

Proud  of  a  place  in  the  noble  nation, 

Where  a  human  soul  — 

A  human  soul  — 

Passes  the  years  as  they  onward  roll, 

Making  a  million  of  heads  for  pins,  or  a  thousand 

knives  ; 
Such  are  the  miracles  men  call  lives  ! 


No  wonder,  when  the  future  is  forgot, 
If  earth,  and  man,  and  all  that  being  brings, 
Seem  but  a  blank,  unmeaning  blot, 
That  God  has  scattered,  writing  higher  things, 
And  the  soul,  poor  ghost ! 
So  bitterly,  bitterly  tempest-tost, 
So  base  and  cowardly  doth  lie, 
That  it  would  give  — 
Ah  !  gladly  give  — 
All  this  life  that  it  dare  not  live, 
To  shun  the  death  it  dare  not  die. 
Life  —  poor  thing  —  that  wastes  its  painful  breath, 
And  walks  the  road  that  the  fates  have  given, 
Tossing  its  fettered  hands  to  heaven, 
Like  an  ironed  criminal   struggling  and  praying  his 
way  to  death  ! 


26  COMMENCEMENT   POEM 


DISCONTENT 

Oh,  that  one  could  arise  and  flee 

Unto  blue-eyed  Italy, 

Far  from  mechanical  clank  and  hum  ! 

There  to  sit  by  the  sighing  sea, 

And  to  dream  of  the  days  that  shall  be  —  shall  be  — 

And  the  glory  of  years  to  come. 

Or  on  some  far  ocean-isle, 

Under  the  palm  and  the  cocoa-tree, 

To  build  of  the  coral  boughs  a  home,  — 

Or  floating  and  falling  adown  the  Nile, 

To  drown  one's  cares  in  the  deeps  of  Time 

And  the  desert's  brooding  mystery. 

Yet  howsoever  we  plot  or  plan, 

In  every  age  —  through  every,  clime  — 

Still  the  littleness  of  man 

Would  follow  us,  fast  as  we  might  flee : 

And  the  wrangling  world   break  in   on   whatever  is 

tender  and  sweet, 
As  on  a  beautiful  tune  the  rattling  and  noise  of  the 

street. 


Oh,  the  world  —  the  world  ! 
Mockery  —  knavery  —  cheat ; 
Down  at  your  angry  feet 
Let  the  lying  thing  be  hurled  : 


COMMENCEMENT    POEM  27 

Worth  no  sorrowful  tear  or  sob, 

Worth  not  even  a  sigh ; 

But  the  scorn  which  a  murdered  purpose  hurls  on  a 

butchering  mob,  — 
Which  the  pale,  dead  lips  of  a  truth  smile  back  on  a 

conquering  lie. 


VIII 

THE    FOUNTAIN 

Were  it  not  horrible  ? 
After  all  the  dreams  we  dream, 

Our  yearnings  and  our  prayers, 
If  this  "  I  "were  but  a  stream 
Of  thoughts,  sensations,  joys,  and  pains, 
Which  being  clogged,  no  soul  remains; 
Even  as  the  fountain  seems  to  be 
A  shape  of  one  identity, 
But  only  is  a  stream  of  drops, 
And  when  the  swift  succession  stops, 
The  fountain  melts  and  disappears, 
Leaving  no  trace  but  scattered  tears. 
Yet  even  here,  O  foolish  heart, 
Thou  wert  not  cheated  of  thy  part ; 
Were  it  not  better,  even  here, 
To  keep  thy  current  pure  and  clear, 
With  pearly  drops  of  dew  to  wet 
The  amaranth  and  violet, 


28  COMMENCEMENT   POEM 

And  round  thy  crystal  feet  to  shower 
Blessings  and  beauty  every  hour — 
Better  than  in  a  sullen  flow 
To  creep  along  the  ground,  and  go 
Wasting  and  sinking  through  the  sand, 
To  make  no  single  spot  of  land 
Happier  or  holier  for  thy  being  — 
Refresh  no  flower,  no  grass-blade,  seeing 
Thou  wert  not  always  thus  to  stand  ? 


IX 

SOLITUDE 

All  alone  —  alone, 

Calm,  as  on  a  kingly  throne, 

Take  thy  place  in  the  crowded  land, 

Self-centred  in  free  self-command. 

Let  thy  manhood  leave  behind 

The  narrow  ways  of  the  lesser  mind : 

What  to  thee  are  its  little  cares, 

The  feeble  love  or  the  spite  it  bears  ? 

Let  the  noisy  crowd  go  by  — 

In  thy  lonely  watch  on  high, 

Far  from  the  chattering  tongues  of  men, 

Sitting  above  their  call  or  ken, 

Free  from  links  of  manner  and  form 

Thou  shalt  learn  of  the  winged  storm  — 

God  shall  speak  to  thee  out  of  the  sky. 


COMMENCEMENT   POEM  29 

x 

Well  —  well, 

Why  need  the  hurrying  brain  to  trouble  itself? 

Threescore  years  is  swiftly  worn  away  — 

In  some  summer  when  our  heads  are  gray, 

We  perhaps  shall  wander  back  from  our  power  or 

pelf, 

To  muse  on  the  days  when  all  these  things  befell. 
Nothing  will  then  be  changed : 
Calm   as   of  yore   through    the   slumberous   summer 

noon 

Will  the  Old  Rock  rest  in  its  majesty ; 
All  the  paths  that  we  have  ranged 
Still  will  wear  the  glory  of  their  June,  — 
Nothing  changed  but  we. 

The  years  will  bring  us,  hastening  to  their  goal, 
A  little  more  of  calmness,  and  of  trust, 
With  still  the  old,  old  doubt  of  death  and  dust, 
And  still  the  expectancy  within  the  soul. 
O  Father,  as  we  go  to  meet  the  years, 
We  ask  not  joy  that  fame  or  pleasure  brings, 
But  some  calm  knowledge  of  the  sum  of  things  — 
A  hint  of  glory  glimmering  over  tears  ; 
That  he,  who  walks  with  sanction  from  Thy  hand, 
Some  token  of  its  presence  may  have  seen, 
Beneath  which  we  may  tread  the  path  serene 
Into  the  stillness  of  the  unknown  land. 


THE    FOUR    PICTURES 

A  GROUP  of  artists  of  the  olden  time 
Met  in  a  studio.    One  was  gray  and  bent, 
With  beard  like  snow  against  his  doublet  black ; 
Three  younger,  one  with  glowing  olive  cheek, 
One  with  a  drowsy  glitter  in  deep  eyes, 
One  lean,  and  full  of  quick  heat-lightning  ways,  — 
You  could  not  guess  if  he  were  old  or  young, 
For  his  face  hid  the  marks  of  other  lives 
Long  gone,  and  so  belied  his  stripling  form. 

Around  were  half-done  pictures  :   eyes  begun, 
Gleams  of  white  flesh  from  sombre  shadows  dim, 
A  velvet  mantle  tossed  upon  a  stool, 
A  lute,  a  leaning  rapier,  vases  tall, 
And  thro'  thin,  taper  glasses  glimmered  wine. 

Suddenly  spake  the  restless  one:   "Enough 
Of  dabbled  flowers,  and  bits  of  landscape  bland  ; 
Let  us  each  paint  the  world  as  't  is  to  him. 
Here  are  my  pencils  and  my  canvas,  —  come  !  " 
Then  from  a  curious  cabinet  he  drew 
A  flask,  vine-etched,  and  held  it  to  the  sun, 
Till  the  gold  was  molten  thro'  it :   u  This  to  him 
Whose  sketch  is  best  —  but  who  shall  be  the  judge?" 


THE    FOUR    PICTURES  31 

"  That  sweet  slim  maid  who  sat  to  you  last  week," 
Answered  the  graybeard,  u  and  who  comes  to-day, 
You  said,  with  ducats  for  the  finished  work." 

So  till  the  sunset's  level  pencil  lay 
Flame  red  on  bust  and  antique  furniture, 
Their  slender  fingers  dextrous  went  and  came 
'Twixt  color  and  canvas ;  then  they  turned  and  saw. 

Snowbeard  had  sketched  a  sullen  close  of  day ; 
A  flat  and  windy  beach ;   a  flying  leaf 
Whirled  at  haphazard  over  toward  the  foam. 

And  Drowsy-eyes  had  hung  a  pipe  in  air, 
Broken  mid-stem,  whose  tip  was  lost  in  cloud, 
And  from  its  bowl  a  bubble  floated  up, 
Which  was  the  earth,  with  land  and  mimic  seas. 

And  Olive-cheek  had  made  far  overhead 
A  gorge  of  blue  in  the  sky,  with  cliffs  of  cloud 
Rounded,  and  white  as  salt,  and  in  between 
A  headlong  fallen  angel  plunging  down. 

But  Restless-face  most  lovingly  had  drawn 
The  slim  sweet  maid  who  was  to  be  their  judge, 
Looking  with  such  unearthly  deeps  of  eyes 
Into  your  very  soul,  you  dare  not  love  — 
You  dare  not  even  dream  how  fair  they  were, 
Lest  they  should  flash  upon  your  dream  with  scorn. 


32  THE   FOUR    PICTURES 

And  as  they  looked,  lo  !   she  herself  had  come. 
Quietly  then  the  others  stole  away, 
With  friendly  mischief  in  their  nod  and  smile, 
Leaving  those  two  alone.    From  silken  mesh 
She  drew  the  broad  gold  pieces,  that  betrayed 
Her  trembling  touch  in  tinklings  musical. 
But  he  :   u  I  give  you  all  the  world  I  have,  — 
I  ask  but  what  is  all  the  world  to  me." 
And  answering  not,  with  tender  eyes  cast  down, 
She  left  in  his  her  little,  warm,  white  hand. 


HOUSE    WHERE    SILL    WAS    BORN,    WINDSOR,   CONN.,    1841 


POEMS    WRITTEN    BETWEEN 
1862    AND    1867 

THE    RUBY    HEART 
A  CHILD'S  STORY 

UNDER  a  fragrant  blossom-bell 
A  tiny  Fairy  once  did  dwell. 
The  moss  was  bright  about  her  feet, 
Her  little  face  was  fair  and  sweet, 
Her  form  in  rainbow  hues  was  clad, 
And  yet  the  Fairy's  soul  was  sad  ; 
For,  of  the  Elves  that  round  her  moved, 
And  in  the  yellow  moonlight  roved, 
There  was  no  Spirit  that  she  loved. 

Many  a  one  there  was,  I  ween, 
Among  the  sprites  that  danced  the  green, 
Whose  hands  were  warm  to  clasp  her  own, 
And  voices  kindly  in  their  tone  ; 
But  love  the  fondest  and  the  best 
Awaked  no  answer  in  her  breast : 
Her  heart  unmoved  within  her  slept  — 
And,  "  I  can  never  love  !  "  she  wept. 


34  THE    RUBY    HEART 

She  taught  herself  a  quaint  old  song 
And  crooned  it  over  all  day  long : 

"//<?  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

"  But  I,"  she  said,  "can  never  pray, 
Nor  to  His  mansions  find  the  way, 
For  he  will  suffer  not,  I  know, 
A  creature  unto  Him  to  go 
Who  has  not  loved  His  world  below." 

Slow-wandering  by  the  brook  alone, 
She  chose  a  pure  white  pebble-stone, 
And  carved  it,  sitting  there  apart, 
Into  a  little  marble  heart ; 
She  hung  it  by  her  mossy  bed  — 
"  My  heart  will  never  love,"  she  said, 
"  Till  this  white  stone  turn  ruby-red." 

One  night  a  moonbeam  smote  her  face 
And  wakened  her,  and  in  its  place 
There  stood  an  angel,  full  of  grace. 
"  Dear  child,"  he  said,  "  from  far  above 
I  come  to  teach  thee  how  to  love. 
Do  every  day  some  little  deed 
Of  kindness,  some  faint  creature  feed, 


THE    RUBY   HEART  35 

Make  some  hurt  spirit  cease  to  bleed, 
Then  carve  the  record  fair,  at  night, 
Upon  thy  heart  of  marble  white. 
Each  word  shall  turn  to  ruby-red, 
And  so  much  of  thy  task  be  sped  ;  — 
For  when  the  whole  is  ruddied  o'er, 
Thy  bosom  shall  be  cold  no  more  ; 
The  souls  thy  careless  thoughts  contemn 
Shall  win  thee  by  thy  deeds  to  them.'" 

Upon  the  sorrowful  Fairy  broke 
Like  sudden  sunshine  this  new  hope. 
Each  day  to  some  one's  door  she  took 
A  kindly  act,  or  word,  or  look, 
Whose  record,  fairly  carved  at  night, 
Blushed  out  upon  the  stony  white  ; 
Till,  somehow,  wondrously  there  grew 
More  grace  in  every  one  she  knew  — 
Each  little  ugliness  concealed, 
Each  goodness  more  and  more  revealed, — 
As,  when  you  watch  the  twilight  through, 
The  sky  seems  one  pure  empty  blue, 
Till,  o'er  the  paling  sunset  bars, 
Suddenly  't  is  one  sweep  of  stars  ! 

So  day  by  day  she  found  herself 
Grow  kindlier  to  each  little  elf: 
Yea,  even  to  the  birds  and  bees, 
And  slender  flowerets  round  her  knees  ; 


36  THE    RUBY    HEART 

The  very  moss-buds  at  her  feet 

She  came  with  warmer  smile  to  greet, 

Till  now,  at  last,  her  marble  heart 

Was  ruddy,  save  one  little  part 

That  gleamed  all  snowy  as  of  old 

In  the  still  moonbeams,  white  and  cold. 

Her  task  was  almost  done  —  she  knelt, 
And  hid  her  glad  wet  eyes,  and  felt 
Her  soul's  first  prayer  steal  up  to  God, 
Like  Spring's  first  violet  from  the  sod. 
Through  all  her  being  softly  stole 
Such  joy  of  gratitude,  her  soul 
Brimmed  over  like  a  brimming  cup  — 
And  then  a  voice  said,  u  Child,  look  up !  " 
And  lo  !   the  stone  above  her  head 
Was  a  pure  ruby,  starry-red ; 
And  down  among  the  flowers  there  flew, 
Brushing  aside  the  moonlit  dew, 
A  little  snowy  elfin  dove, 
And  nestled  on  her  breast,  to  prove 
Sweet  trust  in  one  whose  heart  was  lc*'e. 


TO    CHILD    ANNA 

As  in  the  Spring,  ere  any  flowers  have  come, 

A  vague  and  blossomy  smell 
Pervades  the  woods,  all  odors  mixed  in  one, 
As  if  to  tell 

That  they  are  mustering  in  each  sunny  dell, 

So  round  your  childish  form  there  seems  to  cling 

A  sense  of  nameless  grace, 
A  sweet  confusion  —  budding  hints  of  Spring 
Just  giving  place 

To  graver  woman-shadows  in  your  face. 

I  see  no  longer  the  mere  child  you  are  — 

The  woman  you  might  be 
Stands  in  your  place,  with  eyes  that  gaze  afar : 
Her  face  I  see, 

And  it  is  very  beautiful  to  me. 

The  little  soft  white  hands  you  lay  in  mine 

I  touch  with  reverent  care ; 
I  see  them  wrinkled  into  many  a  line, 
But  fair  —  more  fair 

For  every  weary  deed  they  do  and  bear. 


38  TO    CHILD    ANNA 

The  fresh  young  mouth,  all  careless  purity, 

Has  faded  from  my  gaze, 
And  all  the  tender  looks,  which  charity 
And  many  patient  days 

Leave  round  the  lips,  seem  now  to  take  its  place. 

Therefore  I  stroke  so  tenderly  your  head, 

Or  watch  your  steps  afar, 

Praying  that  God  His  love  on  you  will  shed  — 
More  faithful  far 

Than  our  blind  human  love  and  watching  are. 


A  FABLE 

TO    CHILD    ANNA 

ONE  morning,  in  a  Prince's  park, 
Before  the  rising  of  the  lark 
Or  the  first  glimmering  twilight  beam, 
A  Lily  blossomed  by  a  stream ; 
Just  at  the  chillest,  darkest  hour, 
When  frowning  clouds  in  heaven,  lower, 
When  shadows  crouch  all  gaunt  and  grim, 
And  every  little  star  is  dim. 

"  O  dreary  world  !  "  the  Lily  sighed  : 
Only  the  dreary  wind  replied. 

Soon,  in  the  East  uprising  slow, 
A  cold  gray  dawn  began  to  grow. 
The  Lily  watched  where  all  around 
The  mist  came  creeping  o'er  the  ground, 
And  listened,  while  with  sadder  tone 
The  morning-wind  began  to  moan  : 
But  all  the  more  the  light  drew  on, 
Her  tear-dewed  cheek  was  deathlier  wan, — 
Each  streak  of  daylight,  as  it  grew, 
Revealed  a  world  so  strange  and  new. 
Slowly  the  dawn  crept  up  the  sky 
Like  a  cold,  cruel,  watching  eye. 


40  A    FABLE 

Once  from  some  little  wakened  bird 
A  twittering  note  of  joy  she  heard  : 
The  chill  dew  fell  upon  her  head  — 
She  almost  wished  that  she  were  dead  ; 
"  There  comes  no  joy  for  me,"  she  said. 

A  gnarled  and  wisdom-wrinkled  Oak 
Which  overheard,  in  answer  spoke  : 

"  O  foolish  little  Lilybell, 
Why  do  you  weep,  when  all  is  well  ? 
Look  up  !    Have  faith  !    For  by  and  by 
The  sun  is  coming  up  the  sky ; 
All  golden  red  the  heavens  will  glow, 
All  golden  green  the  earth  below  ; 
The  birds  their  rippling  songs  will  sing, 
And  wooing  winds  their  spices  bring  : 
And  then  the  Prince  will  hither  come 
To  wander  'mid  his  flowers,  and  some 
(Ah,  favored  blossoms  !),  bending  down, 
He  plucks  and  places  in  his  crown. 
Look  up,  O  foolish  Lilybell ! 
A  little  while,  and  all  is  well." 

The  Lily  drooped  and  trembled  still : 
"  The  dawn,"  she  sobbed,  "  is  dim  and  chill 
And  if  the  Prince  should  come,  alas  ! 
He  will  not  stoop  among  the  grass  ; 
I  surely  cannot  please  his  eyes, 
For  I  am  neither  fair  nor  wise  : 
He  '11  choose  some  tall  and  stately  tree, 
He  surely  will  not  care  for  me  !  " 


A    FABLE  41 

But  now  the  sunrise  was  at  hand, 
Lighting  with  splendor  all  the  land  ; 
As  if  a  seraph  stood  below 
With  lifted  pinions  all  aglow, 
Whose  tips  of  fire  still  nearer  came 
In  feathery  plumes  of  floating  flame  ; 
While  from  his  hidden  face  the  rays 
Shot  up  and  set  the  heavens  ablaze. 
They  warmed  the  old  Oak's  wrinkled  face, 
And  touched  it  with  a  mellow  grace  ; 
Then  dancing  downward  to  his  feet 
They  kissed  the  Lily's  face  so  sweet, 
And  laughed  away  her  foolish  fear 
And  lit  a  gem  in  every  tear  ; 
Then  flew  to  greet  the  Master's  eye, 
Who  even  now  was  drawing  nigh. 

He  saw  the  Lily's  fragile  cup 
With  dew  and  sunlight  brimming  up, 
And,  as  he  marked  each  beauty  well, 
The  petals  pure  as  pearliest  shell, 
And  on  the  lowly  bending  stem 
Th£  tear-drop  sparkling  like  a  gem, 
The  Prince  was  glad,  and  stooping  down 
Plucked  it,  and  set  it  in  his  crown  ; 
And  'mid  the  jewels  glittering  there 
None  shone  so  royally  and  rare, 
For  none  was  half  so  pure  and  fair. 

Dear  child,  't  is  our  ingratitude, 
And  faithless  fear,  and  sullen  mood, 


42  A    FABLE 

Darken  a  world  so  bright  and  good ! 
There  's  nothing  beautiful  and  true  — 
There  's  not  a  rift  of  heaven's  blue, 
And  not  a  flower,  or  dancing  leaf, 
But  shames  our  selfish-hearted  grief. 
His  hand  that  feels  the  sparrow's  fall, 
And  builds  the  bee  his  castle-wall, 
And  spreads  the  tiniest  insect's  sail, 
And  tints  the  violet's  purple  veil, 
Will  never  let  His  children  stray 
Or  wander  from  His  arms  away. 
To-day  may  seem  all  cold  and  dim  — 
Trust  the  To-morrow  unto  Him. 

'T  is  slander  that  we  often  hear, 
"  Hope  whispers  falsehoods  in  our  ear," 
There  's  no  such  lying  voice  as  Fear. 
Hope  is  a  prophet  sent  from  Heaven, 
Fear  is  a  false  and  croaking  raven. 
The  dawn  that  buds  all  gray  and  cold 
Will  blossom  to  a  sky  of  gold  ; 
God's  love  shall  like  a  sunrise  stay 
To  lighten  all  the  future  way  — 
Still  brighter  to  the  Perfect  Day. 


THE   CREATION 

A  FOUNTAIN  rusheth  upward  from  God's  throne ; 
Its  streaming  stem  we  name  Eternal  Power : 
Its  tossing  drops  are  worlds,  that  spin  and  fall, 
While  on  their  spheres  our  little  human  lives 
Like  gleams  and  shadows  swiftly  glance  and  go. 


THE    FIRST  CAUSE 

DOUBTLESS  the  linnet,  shut  within  its  cage, 
Thinks  the  fair  child  that  loves  it,  brings  it  seed, 
And  hangs  it,  chirping  to  it,  in  the  sun, 
Is  the  preserver  of  its  little  world. 

Doubtless  the  child,  within  her  nursery  walls, 
Thinks  her  kind  father  is  the  father  of  all 
Those  happy  children,  chattering  on  the  lawn  — 
Keeps  yonder  town  as  well  as  this  bright  room, 
And  pours  the  brook  that  sparkles  past  the  door. 

Doubtless  we  think  the  Being  who  made  man, 
The  visible  world,  space  powdered  thick  with  stars, 
The  golden  fruit  whose  core  is  curious  life, 
Created  all  things  —  love,  and  law,  and  death ; 
Fate,  the  crowned  forehead  ;  Will,  the  sceptred  hand. 

Perchance — perchance:  yet  need  it  be  that  He 
Who  planted  us  is  the  Head-gardener  ?    What 
If  beyond  Him  rose  rank  on  rank,  as  the  bulb 
Is  higher  than  the  crystals  of  its  food, 
And  he  who  sets  it,  higher  than  the  flower, 
And  he  that  owns  the  garden,  more  than  all  ? 

The  great  Cause  works  through  lesser  ones  ;  permits 
The  plant  to  bear  dead  buds  on  dying  stems ; 
The  beaver  to  weave  dams  that  the  stream  snaps ; 
The  workman  to  make  watches  that  lose  time, 


THE    FIRST    CAUSE  45 

Or  organ  pipes  all  jarred  and  out  of  tune. 
Did  not  I  build  a  playhouse  for  my  boys, 
And  made  it  ill,  and  that  loose  plank  fell  down 
And  hurt  the  children  ?    And  did  not  I  learn, 
After  three  trials,  how  to  make  it  well  ? 
Know  we  the  limit  of  the  power  He  gives 
To  lesser  Wills  to  will  imperfectly  ? 
Is  earth  that  limit  ?    Is  the  last  link  man, 
Between  the  finite  and  the  infinite  ? 
When  that  new  star  flared  out  in  heaven,  and  died, 
Who  knows  what  Spirit,  failing  in  his  plan, 
Dashed  out  his  work  in  wrath,  to  try  anew  ? 
O  mother  world !   we  stammer  at  thy  knee 
Vainly  our  childish  questions.    'T  is  enough 
For  such  as  we  to  know,  that  on  His  throne, 
Nearer  than  we  can  think,  and  farther  off 
Than  any  mind  can  fathom,  sits  the  One, 
And  sees  to  it  —  though  pain  and  evil  come, 
And  all  may  not  be  good  —  that  all  is  well. 


SEMELE 

WHAT    were    the    garden-bowers    of    Thebes    to 

me  ? 

What  cared  I  for  their  dances  and  their  feasts, 
Whose  heart  awaited  an  immortal  doom  ? 
The  Greek  youths  mocked  me,  since  I   shunned  in 

scorn 

Them  and  their  praises  of  my  brows  and  hair. 
The  light  girls  pointed  after  me,  who  turned 
Soul-sick  from  their  unending  fooleries. 
Apollo's  noon-glare  .wrathfully  beat  down 
Upon  the  head  that  would  not  bend  to  him  — 
Him  in  his  fuming  anger!  —  as  the  highest. 
In  every  lily's  cup  a  venomous  thing 
Crooked  up  its  hairy  limbs ;  or,  if  I  bent 
To  pluck  a  blue-eyed  blossom  in  the  grass, 
Some  squatted  horror  leered  with  motionless  eyes. 

I  think  the  very  earth  did  hate  my  feet, 
And  put  forth  thistles  to  them,  since  I  loathed 
Her  bare  brown  bosom ;  and  the  scowling  pines 
Menaced  me  with  dark  arms,  and  hissed  their  threats 
Behind  me,  hurrying  through  their  gloom,  to  watch 
(Blurred  in  unsteady  tears  till  all  their  beams 
Dazzled,  and  shrank,  and  grew)  that  oval  ring 
Of  shining  points  that  rift  the  Milky  Way, 


SEMELE  47 

Revealing,  through  their  gap  in  the  dusted  fire, 
The  hollow  awfulness  of  night  beyond. 


There  came  a  change :   a  glory  fell  to  me. 
No  more  't  was  Semele,  the  lonely  girl, 
But  Jupiter's  Beloved,  Semele. 
With  human  arms  the  god  came  clasping  me  : 
New  life  streamed  from  his  presence ;  and  a  voice 
That  scarce  could  curb  itself  to  the  smooth  Greek 
Now  and  anon  swept  forth  in  those  deep  nights, 
Thrilling  my  flesh  with  awe ;   mysterious  words  — 
I  knew  not  what ;  hints  of  unearthly  things 
That  I  had  felt  on  solemn  summer  noons, 
When  sleeping  earth  dreamed  music,  and  the  heart 
Went  crooning  a  low  song  it  could  not  learn, 
But  wandered  over  it,  as  one  who  gropes 
For  a  forgotten  chord  upon  a  lyre. 


Yea,  Jupiter  !    But  why  this  mortal  guise, 
Wooing  as  if  he  were  a  milk-faced  boy  ? 
Did  I  lack  lovers  ?    Was  my  beauty  dulled, 
The  golden  hair  turned  dross,  the  lithe  limbs  shrunk, 
The  deathless  longings  tamed,  that  I  should  seethe 
My  soul  in  love  like  any  shepherd  girl  ? 

One  night  he  sware  to  grant  whate'er  I  asked  ; 
And  straight  I  cried,  "  To  know  thee  as  thou  art ! 
To  hold  thee  on  my  heart  as  Juno  does  ! 


48  SEMELE 

Come  in  thy  thunder  —  kill  me  with  one  fierce 
Divine    embrace  !    Thine    oath  !  —  Now,    Earth,    at 
last !  " 


The  heavens  shot  one  swift  sheet  of  lurid  flame : 
The  world  crashed  :  from  a  body  scathed  and  torn 
The  soul  leapt  through,  and  found  his  breast,  and  died. 

"Died?" — So  the  Theban    maidens    think,  and 

laugh, 

Saying,  "  She  had  her  wish,  that  Semele  ! " 
But  sitting  here  upon  Olympus'  height 
I  look  down,  through  that  oval  ring  of  stars, 
And  see  the  far-off  Earth,  a  twinkling  speck  — 
Dust-mote  whirled  up  from  the  Sun's  chariot-wheel  — 
And  pity  their  small' hearts  that  hold  a  man 
As  if  he  were  a  god  ;   or  know  the  god  — 
Or  dare  to  know  him  —  only  as  a  man  ! 
—  O  human  love,  art  thou  forever  blind  ? 


CLASS   SONG 

1864 

As  through  the  noon  the  reapers  rest, 
Till  sinks  the  sun  adown  the  west, 
From  morning  toil  an  hour  we  come 
To  dream  beneath  the  trees  of  home. 

O  gentle  elms,  within  your  shade 
Ye  keep  the  vows  that  we  have  made : 
Your  bending  boughs,  in  tender  tone, 
Are  whispering  still  of  Sixty-One. 

Like  drowsy  murmurs  of  the  noon, 
Our  noisy  futures  melt  in  tune, 
And  all  the  past,  like  ocean  shell, 
Still  echoing,  sighs  —  farewell,  farewell ! 

Pure  as  the  evening's  pearly  star, 
And  sweet  as  songs  that  float  afar, 
Our  olden  love  comes  back  to-night, 
In  music  soft,  and  starry  light. 

O  summer  wind,  on  pinions  strong, 
Waft  to  the  absent  ones  our  song  ; 
And  tell  them,  wander  as  they  will, 
We  love  them  still, —  we  love  them  still  ! 


THE    GAME    OF   LIFE 

WE  are  living  a  game  of  chess,  dear  May  — 

For  the  prize  of  the  Better  Life  we  play. 

The  wonderful  world  is  our  chequered  board, 

And  our  hearts  the  box  where  the  pieces  are  stored. 
The  evil  one  has  ever  been 
Our  foe,  and  uses  our  faults  for  men. 

There  's  the  Black  King  Fear  and  the  Black  Queen 
Pride 

With  her  bishops  Envy  and  Spite  beside, 

And  his  knights  are  Malice  and  Deceit, 

His  castles  Stubbornness  and  Hate, 

And  for  pawns  each  little  idle  sin, 

That  trusts  to  its  smallness  to  creep,  creeps  in. 

But  on  our  side  the  white  King,  Will, 

And  the  white  Queen  Love,  march  conquering  still. 

Her  bishops  are  Honor  and  Purity, 

Her  knights  are  Kindness  and  Charity, 

And  for  castles  staunch  and  strong  and  fair, 

Courage  and  Constancy  are  there, 

And  the  little  pawns  to  be  given  away 

Are  our  little  kindly  acts  each  day. 

Sometimes  a  wily  foe  is  met 

And  the  wavering  will  is  sore  beset ; 


THE    GAME    OF   LIFE  51 

But  we  do  not  fight  quite  all  alone  — 

There  comes  a  quiet  whispered  tone, 

An  unseen  touch  that  seems  to  fall 

In  answer  to  the  faintest  call, 

And  lifts  our  fingers  tired  and  lame, 

And  points  the  move  that  wins  the  game. 

In  dazzling  day  or  blinding  night 

God  ne'er  forgets  us  in  the  fight ; 

His  glorious  angels  will  abide 

If  we  but  clasp  them  at  our  side ; 

The  hand  that  beckons  them  is  Prayer, 

And  Faith  the  clasp  that  holds  them  there. 


MAN,   THE    SPIRIT 

A  SMALL,  swift  planet,  glimmering  round  a  star, — 
A  molten  drop  with  thinnest  crusted  shell 
Of  lime  and  flint,  roofed-in  with  azure  air, — 
A  winding  stair  of  life,  from  Trilobite 
And  Saurian  up  to  one  who  walks  their  king, 
Drawing  the  lime  and  flint  up  through  themselves 
And  kindling  them  to  spirit,  till  on  him, 
Whose  limbs  are  clay,  there  flames  a  lambent  crown 
Of  fire  from  heaven, —  these  make  our  world. 

What  then 

Is  this  wild  creature,  wandering  up  and  down, 
Seeking  a  thousand  things,  but  keeping  still 
A  thought  of  God  in  his  heart  ?    Why  is  he  here, 
Feet  in  the  sod  and  thoughts  among  the  stars, 
Bewildered  for  some  watchword  or  command, 
As  a  battalion  wavering  on  the  field 
Without  a  leader  ?     In  the  march  of  worlds 
Is  Earth  alone  forgotten  ? 

Who  are  we, 

Clustered  to-day  with  eyes  and  hands  that  clasp 
As  by  some  secret  oath  of  brotherhood, 
Out  of  the  mass  that  jostles  to  and  fro 


MAN,  THE   SPIRIT  53 

Forever,  without  aim  or  hope  ?     We  are  pledged 

To  UNDERSTAND,  to  live  the  truth  we  know, 

And  help  men  so  to  live  and  understand. 

A  handful  'gainst  a  host,  we  make  our  stand, 

Nailing  this  thesis  on  the  golden  gate 

Of  the  new  Mammon-temples — that  the  souls  — 

The  striving,  praying,  hoping,  human  souls  — 

Alone  on  earth  are  valuable  —  their  end 

To  will  God's  will,  because  their  will  belongs 

To  him,  the  maker  and  the  giver,  so 

Dilating  to  the  broader  destiny 

Whose  shadowy  gateway  opens  from  our  world. 

Out  of  the  wrinkled  bosom  of  the  Old, 
New  England  once  was  born  ,  a  rock-hewn  race, 
Puritan  pilgrims,  splendidly  pure  and  grim. 
Flint-set  against  all  sham,  they  rose  to  say 
'T  was  sunrise  and  the  ghosts  must  vanish  now 
Before  the  living  Fact :   that  a  king's  crowned  head 
Was  but  a  man's  head,  and  it  must  come  off 
Like  any  beggar's,  when  it  wrought  a  wrong. 
They  freed  society,  the  individual  man 
We  must  emancipate ;   they  stripped  all  masks, 
And  knocked  the  fool's-caps  off  the  venerable  heads 
Of  church  and  state,  and  tore  their  pompous  robes 
To  strings  for  children  to  fly  kites  with. 

Here 

Upon  a  coast  whose  calmer-blossoming  surf 
Beats  not  with  such  an  iron  clang  as  theirs, 


54  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

We  plant  the  Newer  England  ;   this  our  word, 

That  man  is  no  mere  spider-like  machine 

To  spin  out  webs  of  railroads  after  him 

In  all  earth's  corners,  nor  a  crafty  brain 

Made  to  knit  cunning  nets  of  politics 

Or  sharpen  down  to  insignificance 

On  the  grinding  wheels  of  business,  but  a  Soul, 

That  travelling  higher  worlds  in  upper  light 

Dips  down  through  bodily  contact  into  this  ; 

As    a    hand    trails    over    a    boat's    side    through    the 

waves, 

And  seems  to  the  sea-creatures,  eyed  alone 
For  their  own  element,  a  thing  of  the  sea. 
Whether  he  wear  the  purple  or  the  serge, 
Whether  he  worship  under  frescoed  pomp 
Or  bare-hewn  rafters,  it  is  still  the  man, 
The  individual  spirit,  something  far 
Beyond  earth's  chemistry,  to  whom  all  else 
Are  only  foot-lights,  scene,  accessory, 
Or  nothing —  or  a  farce,  a  mockery. 

In  this  fair  land,  whose  fields  lie  robed  in  bloom, 
A  living  poem  bound  in  blue  and  gold, 
With  azure  flowers  like  little  flecks  of  sky 
Fallen,  tangled  in  the  dew-drops,  to  the  grass, 
And  orange  ones  —  as  if  the  wealth  below 
Had  blossomed  up  in  beaten  flakes  of  gold  ; 
Where  all  the  baser  elements  of  earth, 
Aspiring  up  through  root,  and  stalk,  and  leaf, 


MAN,  THE    SPIRIT  55 

Stand  stretching  delicate  petal-wings  toward  heaven, 

Poised  on  their  slender  feet  for  flying ;  here 

Nature,  like  amorous  Cleopatra,  plots 

To  hold  her  Caesar,  brimming  every  sense 

With  perfume,  song,  and  gorgeous  coloring, 

Throws  softly  wooing  winds  about  his  neck, 

With  sparkling  air  (as  tho'  not  pearls  alone, 

But  diamonds  were  dissolved  in  it),  still  fires 

His  brain  to  seek  new  dalliance,  fresh  delight, 

Forgetful  of  his  throne  beyond  the  Sea. 

Content  with  the  golden  Present,  now,  they  say, 

We  must  pore  in  the  past  no  longer;  our  old  books, 

And  antique,  moss-grown  system  must  give  way 

To  the  new  patent  methods  for  the  mind ; 

New  patent  lives  to  lead,  with  no  more  dreams 

And  superstitions,  only  practical  work. 

A  callow-winged  philosophy  breaks  shell 

And  cackles  prematurely  loud  that  we 

Are  mummied,  gone  behind  the  times  ;   no  more 

Dead  languages,  nor  cloister-life  —  the  lore 

That  will  not  take  the  harness  for  their  use, 

To  weave,  or  grind,  or  burrow-out  the  mine, 

Smells  mouldy  to  their  noses  —  Sophomores, 

And  parvenus  of  the  intellectual  world  ! 

Who    would    brush    down    from    heaven    the    olden 

stars, 

To  set  new,  self-adjusting  spangles  there, 
Would  mow  the  everlasting  mountains  off, 
And  build  up  straight,  right-angled  ones  instead. 


56  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

What  is  our  training  —  what  do  colleges  give 
To    men,   which   makes    that    feared    and   sneered-at 

thing, 

A  culture  through  the  classics  ?     Do  we  dare 
Reveal  the  Eleusinian  mysteries 

Which  leave  such  impress  on  these  white  boy-brows, 
That  the  world,  recognizing  kingship,  says, 
"  Here  is  a  soul  that  knows  itself,  has  touched 
The  centre,  and  radiates  the  broadening  beams 
Of  influence  straight  to  the  point  he  means  "  ? 
We  cannot,  if  we  would,  tell  all ;   we  hold 
Some  things  there  are  that  never  can  be  told. 

Articulate  speech  is  but  a  coarse-woven  sieve 
That  drops  the  fine  gold  through  ;  some  subtile  chords 
Of  swift  and  ravishing  music  lurk  between 
The  written  notes.      This  only  we  can  tell : 
The  boy,  clear-eyed  and  beautiful-browed,  is  led 
To  a  quiet  spot  arched  ove>r  by  great  trees, 
And  this  seal  set  upon  him,  —  for  four  years 
Sacred  from  all  the  tarnishing  touch  of  men ; 
Shut  from  the  jangling  of  the  brazen  bells 
That  strike  the  hours  of  the  Present  noisily, 
He  is  bid  to  listen  —  and  along  the  years 
Float  up  the  echoes  of  the  Past,  the  world's 
Birth-songs  and  marching-music,  requiems  and  prayers. 
He  learns  the  languages  that  we  call  "  dead  " 
(The  only  living  ones,  whose  fire  still  glows 
Beneath  the  ash  of  every  modern  tongue), 


MAN,  THE    SPIRIT  57 

The  scrolls  that  men  have  dabbled  with  heart's  blood, 

Blotted  with  tears,  are  his,  to  learn  that  all 

Is  accident  and  flying  form  except  the  soul. 

The  outer  husk,  the  crown,  the  robes,  or  rags 

Signify  nothing  ;   Roman,  Greek,  and  Goth, 

Ate,  slept,  and  dreamed,  and  died,  like  modern  men. 

The  audible  word  is  nothing  —  if  the  lips 

Prayed  Zeus  or  Allah,  Elohim  or  Lord, 

The  heart  said  still  the  same.      He  learns  to  choose 

The  changeless  from  the  changing,  as  sole  good. 

Only  the  trivial  chaff  is  fanned  away, 

As  Time's  broad  wings  go  sweeping  over  earth. 

The  futile  acquisitions  of  to-day 

Tempt  him  but  little,  so  the  heart  grow  full 

With  inner  force  and  outward-burning  fire. 

No  surface  buckling-on  of  glittering  facts 

His  mind  would  have,  but  weapons  that  can  make 

The  sinewy  arm  to  wield  them  ;   for  the  sword 

And  shield  will  moulder,  but  the  sinewy  arm 

Has  many  a  field  to  fight  beyond  this  earth. 

Stretched  under  some  cathedral-roof  of  elm, 
Frescoed  in  flickering  sunlights,  with  far  eyes 
That  watch  and  do  not  see  the  summer  sky  — 
A  cloudy  opal,  veined  as  when  a  wave 
Leaps    up,    and    breaks,   and    leaves    the    milk-white 

foam 

Streaking  its  meshes  over  the  blue  sea  — 
Flat  to  the  ground,  where  he  can  seem  to  feel 


58  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

The  great  earth  heave  beneath  him  like  a  ship 

Plunging  its  course  along  the  tideless  space, 

He  whispers  with  his  heart  in  thoughts  like  these 


THE    FUTURE 

What  may  we  take  into  the  vast  Forever  ? 

That  marble  door 
Admits  no  fruit  of  all  our  long  endeavor, 

No  fame-wreathed  crown  we  wore, 

No  garnered  lore. 

What  can  we  bear  beyond  the  unknown  portal  ? 

No  gold,  no  gains 
Of  all  our  toiling,  in  the  life  immortal 

No  hoarded  wealth  remains, 

Nor  gilds,  nor  stains. 

Naked  from  out  that  far  abyss  behind  us 

We  entered  here  : 
No  word  came  with  our  coming  to  remind  us 

What  wondrous  world  was  near, 

No  hope,  no  fear. 

Into  the  silent,  starless  Night  before  us, 

Naked  we  glide  : 
No  hand  has  mapped  the  constellations  o'er  us, 

No  comrade  at  our  side, 

No  chart,  no  guide. 


MAN,  THE    SPIRIT  59 

Yet  fearless  toward  that  midnight,  black  and  hollow, 

Our  footsteps  fare  : 
The  beckoning  of  a  father's  hand  we  follow, 

His  love  alone  is  there, 

No  curse,  no  care. 


And  so  we  learn  our  world,  finding  how  time 
Is  an  illusion  —  the  perspective  all 
But  a  mere  trick  of  shadow,  which  can  make 
That  misty  peak  seem  far  beyond  the  hill 
In  the  foreground  —  touch  it,  and  you  see 
'T  is  all  one  whole  :   The  Greek  stands  at  our  side, 
Toga  and  sandals  shielding  the  same  flesh 
That  coat  and  shoes  do  now,  the  same  hot  brain 
Throbbing  beneath  the  helmet  as  the  hat. 
As  one  who  hums  a  tune  about  his  work, 
And  hears  a  friend's  voice  from  another  room 
Strike  in  an  alto,  so  we  hear  afar 
The  sound  of  voices  all  along  the  past 
Chording  with  ours.    'T  was  only  yesterday 
That  Plato  stood  and  talked  with  Socrates ; 
'T  was  last  night  Paul  was  here,  and  on  the  desk 
He  left  his  letters,  which  the  air  has  turned 
From  parchment  into  paper  for  our  use. 
In  the  next  room  they  wait ;   't  is  but  a  step 
Over  the  threshold  to  them  there,  yet  since 
The  shadow  of  the  tree  of  life  lies  dark 
Across  the  doorway,  like  a  faltering  child 


60  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

We  dread  the  passage  through  the  cold  dark  hall, 
To  where  the  Father  calls,  and  they  have  gone. 

What  is  the  visible,  tangible  world  all  worth, 
Except  for  symbols,  somewhat  coarse  and  large, 
Like  the  raised  letters  for  the  blind  to  feel  ? 
The  shadowy  domes  serenely  lifted  up, 
The  soundless  depths  that  deepen  down  in  thought, 
Make  one  small  world  draw  dwindling  to  a  point. 
The  little  earth  !    Think,  that  the  same  bright  sun, 
Which  rises  there  from  the  familiar  hill 
And  laughs  its  level  joy  straight  to  our  eyes, 
Is  wrapping  half  the  globe  in  morning  light, 
Kindling  dew-diamonds  on  the  tropic  palm, 
Tipping  the  white  gull's  wing  o'er  Northern  seas 
And  striking  frozen  fire  from  the  iceberg's  towers 
At  either  pole. 

The  brisk  and  dapper  minds 

Are  doubtless  those  which  have  had  the  practical 
And  not  the  philosophic  training,  yet 
When  the  world  wants  a  great  man  for  great  deeds, 
Who  ever  took  the  modern-fashioned  one, 
Who  had  learned  the  useful  only  and  eschewed 
Dead  languages  or  dreaming  in  the  woods  ? 
The  great  man  ever  has  sought  the  sacred  fire 
From  olden  books,  or  from  the  older  stars 
In  solitudes,  away  from  the  bustling  streets 
And  babbling  men. 


MAN,  THE    SPIRIT  61 

Ah,  who  can  speak  of  great 
Nor  think  of  him  who  was  our  greatest  one  ? 
Let  us  wait  here,  and  lay  a  wreath  of  song 
Upon  our  grave. 

THE    DEAD    PRESIDENT 

Were  there  no  crowns  on  earth, 
No  evergreen  to  weave  a  hero's  wreath, 
That  he  must  pass  beyond  the  gates  of  death, 
Our  hero,  our  slain  hero,  to  be  crowned  ? 
Could  there  on  our  unworthy  earth  be  found 

Naught  to  befit  his  worth  ? 

The  noblest  soul  of  all  ! 

When  was  there  ever,  since  our  Washington, 
A  man  so  pure,  so  wise,  so  patient  —  one 
Who  walked  with  this  high  goal  alone  in  sight, 
To  speak,  to  do,  to  sanction  only  Right, 

Though  very  heaven  should  fall ! 

Ah,  not  for  him  we  weep  ; 
What  honor  more  could  be  in  store  for  him  ? 
Who  would  have  had  him  linger  in  our  dim 
And  troublesome  world,  when  his  great  work  was  done  ? 
Who  would  not  leave  that  worn  and  weary  one 

Gladly  to  go  to  sleep  ? 

For  us  the  stroke  was  just ; 
We  were  not  worthy  of  that  patient  heart ; 


62  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

We  might  have  helped  him  more,  not  stood  apart, 
And  coldly  criticised  his  works  and  ways  — 
Too  late  now,  all  \oo  late  —  our  little  praise 
Sounds  hollow  o'er  his  dust. 

Be  merciful,  O  our  God  ! 
Forgive  the  meanness  of  our  human  hearts, 
That  never,  till  a  noble  soul  departs, 
See  half  the  worth,  or  hear  the  angel's  wings 
Till  they  go  rustling  heavenward  as  he  springs 

Up  from  the  mounded  sod. 

Yet  what  a  deathless  crown 
Of  Northern  pine  and  Southern  orange-flower, 
For  victory,  and  the  land's  new  bridal  hour, 
Would  we  have  wreathed  for  that  beloved  brow  ! 
Sadly  upon  his  sleeping  forehead  now 

We  lay  our  cypress  down. 

O  martyred  one,  farewell ! 
Thou  hast  not  left  thy  people  quite  alone, 
Out  of  thy  beautiful  life  there  comes  a  tone 
Of  power,  of  love,  of  trust,  a  prophecy, 
Whose  fair  fulfillment  all  the  earth  shall  be, 

And  all  the  Future  tell. 


Earth's  greatest  ones  ever  have  gone  so  far 
Out  on  life's  borderland,  that  they  have  caught 
The  sound  of  an  infinite  ocean,  far  away, 


MAN,  THE    SPIRIT  63 

Rounding  our  island-world.    But  now  appear 
These  new  philosophers,  practical,  well-informed, 
Assuring  us  there  is  no  ocean-sound  — 
'T  is  but  the  roaring  in  our  feverish  ears. 
They  carry  the  glimmering  lantern  of  conceit 
Swinging  along  their  path,  and  see  no  Night, 
No  fathomless,  sombre  glory  of  the  dark, 
But  their  own  shadows,  that  seem  giant  forms, 
Stalking  across  the  fields  and  fences  —  they 
That  are  stumbling  pygmies  ! 

They  will  show  you  God 
And  all  his  universe  in  a  nutshell  :   see ! 
Pinched  in  our  little  theory  like  a  vice, 
We  cleave  the  nut  with  a  keen  hypothesis, 
Whisk  off  the  top  —  there  't  is  convenient 
For  logical  handling.    "  Cannot  see  ?  "    Oh,  then 
You  have  spoiled  your  eyes  with  gazing  at  the  sun. 
Hard,  angular,  and  dry,  they  pish  and  pooh 
At  all  ideas  they  cannot  measure  off 
And  pack  into  their  iron-bound,  narrow  brain. 
They  '11  not  admit  the  existence  of  a  truth 
Which  cannot  be  expressed  in  x  and  y, 
And  solved  by  their  quadratics.    Well,  they  serve 
To  show  a  new  phenomenon  in  the  world  : 
That  a  mind,  if  taken  in  time,  can  be  transformed 
To  a  machine  of  clockwork,  cogs  and  wheels 
Wound  up  with  useful  facts,  and  set  away 
On  a  shelf  to  go  its  narrow  round  of  thought 


64  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

And  tell  us  when  't  is  noon  or  supper  time, 
If  we  get  careless  through  abstraction.    So 
All  men,  even  these,  have  uses.    Some  to  go 
Whirling  around  the  circumference 
Spinning  out  sparks  into  the  darkling  space, 
While  some  sit  staidly  at  the  safe,  slow  hub 
And  swear  there  are  no  radii  and  no  rim, 
No  winged  steeds  far  at  the  chariot's  pole, 
No  Power  that  rides,  triumphant,  terrible. 
What  has  this  new,  pert  century  done  for  man, 
That  it  affords  to  sneer  at  all  before, 
Because  it  rides  its  aimless  jaunts  by  steam 
And  blabs  its  trivial  talk  by  telegraph  ? 
What  of  it  ?    Are -not  babes  born  naked  now, 
As  ever,  and  go  naked  from  the  world  ? 
If  I  am  the  ape's  cousin,  what  to  me 
Are  steam  and  harnessed  lightning,  art  and  law  ? 
If  the  night  comes  on  so  soon,  what  matters  it 
If  the  short  day  be  foul  or  fair  —  if  Fate 
Rain  thunderbolts  or  roses  on  our  heads  ? 
Yea,  even  't  were  some  satisfaction  then 
To  stand  and  take  the  thunderbolts,  and  think 
We  are  large  enough  at  least  to  serve  as  marks 
For  gods  to  hurl  at. 

If  there  is  no  key, 

Why  puzzle  longer  with  the  scribbled  scroll 
We  blur  our  eyes  on  ?    But,  O  merciful  God, 
If  our  souls  are  immortal,  O  forgive 


MAN,  THE   SPIRIT  65 

That  we  still  creep  on  dusty  hands  and  knees, 

Face    downward    to    the    ground,    when    we    might 

walk 
Erect,  and  face  the  heavens,  and  see  thy  stars  ! 

We  gaze  from  our  separate  windows  on  the  Night 
And  find  our  own  small  faces  imaged  there 
In  the  glass,  nor  ever  see  the  shadowy  plain 
Stretching  out  through  the  dimness,  on  and  on. 

Splendid  beginners,  still  we  toil  and  fill 
The  vestibule  of  our  lives  with  useless  plans, 
With  noise  of  hammer,  scaffolding  and  dust 
And  rubbish,  building  some  imagined  fane 
To  worship  in  through  years  that  never  come. 
For  life  is  like  the  legendary  bird 
The    Christ-child's     hands    were     moulding    out    of 

clay : 

While  we  are  shaping  it  with  eager  care, 
We  look  up  startled,  for  the  bird  has  flown ! 

Ah,  if  the  mind  could  sometimes  be  content 
To  cease  from  its  male  madness,  its  desire 
To  radiate  outward,  and  in  passive  rest 
Receive  from  Nature's  ever-waiting  arms 
Energy,  fire,  and  life  !    We  blind  ourselves 
With  briny  sweat-drops,  even  more  than  tears. 
Ever  with  burning  haste  we  scorch  our  souls, 
And  set  their  compass-needles  whirring  round 


66  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

So  they  can  never  keenly  point  to  the  pole. 

There  's  such  a  clash  and  jar  kept  up  within, 

Hissing  of  nerve-steam,  iron  purposes 

Clanging  on  one  another,  who  can  hear 

The  sweet,  sweet  silver  voices  from  afar  ? 

Ah,  let  a  man  but  listen  !    Have  we  not 

Two  ears  for  silence,  one  small  mouth  for  noise  ? 

Listen  until  we  catch  the  key,  and  know 

Our  note,  and  then  chime  in  —  not  rave  and  run, 

And  shout  our  frantic  orders,  just  as  though 

We  were  the  leader  of  the  orchestra, 

Not  little  separate  voices ;   could  we  wait, 

Each  in  his  corner,  conning  quietly 

His  part,  the  chords  would  be  the  sweeter  for  it. 


A  PARADOX 

Haste,  haste,  O  laggard  —  leave  thy  drowsy  dreams  ! 
Cram    all    thy    brain    with    knowledge ;    clutch    and 

cram  ! 

The  earth  is  wide,  the  universe  is  vast  : 
Thou  hast  infinity  to  learn.    Oh,  haste ! 

Haste  not,  haste  not,  my  soul !    "  Infinity  "  ? 
Thou  hast  eternity  to  learn  it  in. 
Thy  boundless  lesson  through  the  endless  years 
Hath  boundless  leisure.    Run  not  like  a  slave  — 
Sit  like  a  king,  and  see  the  ranks  of  worlds 
Wheel  in  their  cycles  onward  to  thy  feet. 


MAN,  THE    SPIRIT  67 

HOME 

I  know  a  spot  beneath  three  ancient  trees, 
A  solitude  of  green  and  grassy  shade, 

Where  the  tall  roses,  naked  to  the  knees, 
In  that  deep  shadow  wade, 

Whose  rippled  coolness  drips  from  bough  to  bough, 

And  bathes  the  world's  vexation  from  my  brow. 

The  gnarled  limbs  spring  upward  airy-free, 

And  from  their  perfect  arch  they  scarcely  swerve, 

Like  spouted  fountains  from  a  dark,  green  sea 
So  beautiful  they  curve, — 

Motionless  fountains,  slumbering  in  mid-air, 

With  spray  of  shadows  falling  everywhere. 

Here  the  Sun  comes  not  like  the  king  of  day, 
To  rule  his  own,  but  hesitant,  afraid, 

Forbears  his  sceptre's  golden  length  to  lay 
Across  the  inviolate  shade, 

And  wraps  the  broad  space  like  a  darkened  tent, 

With  many  a  quivering  shaft  of  splendor  rent. 

Seclusion,  as  an  island  still  and  lone, 

Round  which  the  ocean-world  may  ebb  and  flow, 
Unheeded,  following  fruitlessly  the  moon, 

And  where  the  soul  may  go 
Naked  of  all  its  vanities  and  cares, 
To  meet  the  bounteous  grace  that  Nature  bares. 


68  MAN,  THE    SPIRIT 

Here  stretched  at  morn  I  watch  the  sunrise  ray 

That  sweeps  across  the  earth  like  minstrel's  hand, 

Waking  from  all  the  birds  a  song  of  day, 
Caught  up  from  land  to  land, 

And  earth  is  beautiful  and  hearts  are  brave, 

Ere  busy  Life  has  waked  to  claim  her  slave. 

P^ach  day  a  pure  and  velvet-petal'd  flower, 

Blooms  fresh  at  dawn,  with  trembling  light  be- 
dewn, 

But  dull  and  tarnished  at  the  mid-day  hour  — 
The  noisy,  trampling  noon, 

Its  beauty  soiled  with  handling.    Ever  choose 

The  virgin  morning  for  the  soul  to  use. 

The  wind  comes  hushing,  hushing  through  the  trees 
Like  surf  that  breaks  on  an  invisible  beach 

And  sends  a  spray  of  whispers  down  the  breeze, 
Whispers  that  seem  to  reach 

From  some  far  inner  land  where  spirits  dwell, 

And  hint  the  secret  which  they  may  not  tell. 

No  garrulous  company  is  here,  but  books  — 

Earth's   best    men   taken    at   their  best  —  books 
used, 

With  dark-edged  paths,  and  penciled  margin-strokes, 
Where  friends  have  paused  and  mused, 

And  here  and  there  beneath  the  noticed  lines, 

Faint  zigzag  marks  like  little  trailing  vines. 


MAN,  THE    SPIRIT  69 

Here  what  to  me  are  all  the  childish  cares 

That  make  a  Bedlam  of  the  busy  world  ? 

Each  hour  that  flies  some  quiet  message  bears 
Beneath  its  moments  furled, 

Like  a  white  dove,  that,  under  her  soft  wings, 

Kind  thoughts  from  far-off  home  and  kindred  brings. 

So  let  us  live,  not  pent  in  noisy  towns, 
But  in  calm  places,  watching  all  things  fair  — 
The  months  following  in  waves  across  the  fields, 
Each  stranding  there  new  flowery  pearls  and  shells ; 
The  flocks  of  shadows  nestled  'neath  the  trees ; 
The  laughing  brooks,  like  mischievous  children  still 
Tangling  the  silver  thread  of  the  motherly  moon. 
So  shall  Earth  be  no  more  a  theatre, 
In  which  a  tragic  comedy  is  played  — 
A  horrible  farce  with  toe  real  murder  in  it  — 
But  a  fair  field  where  till  the  break  of  day 
Man  wrestles  with  the  Angel  of  his  fate 
For  an  immortal  blessing. 

If  we  knew, 

O  Father,  if  we  knew  we  die  not,  but 
Live  on,  we  should  live  worthier  of  thy  love : 
So  help  thy  little  ones  to  know  and  live : 
That  as  a  shadow  which  goes  reaching  forth 
Longer  and  longer  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
The  soul  may  stretch  forth  toward  the  great  Unseen, 
Until  the  sacred,  solemn  starlight  comes 
Gathering  our  individual  shadows  in  its  own. 


THE   CHOICE 

ONLY  so  much  of  power  each  day  — 

So  much  nerve-force  brought  in  play ; 

If  it  goes  for  politics  or  trade, 

Ends  gained  or  money  made, 

You  have  it  not  for  the  soul  and  God  — 

The  choice  is  yours,  to  soar  or  plod. 

So  much  water  in  the  rill : 

It  may  go  to  turn  the  miller's  wheel, 

Or  sink  in  the  desert,  or  flow  on  free 
To  brighten  its  banks  in  meadows  green, 
Till  broadening  out,  fair  fields  between, 

It  streams  to  the  moon-enchanted  sea. 
Only  so  little  power  each  day  : 
Week  by  week  days  slide  away ; 

Ere  the  life  goes,  what  shall  it  be  — 
A  trade  —  a  game  —  a  mockery, 
Or  the  gate  of  a  rich  Eternity  ? 


WISDOM   AND   FAME 

A  WILDERNESS,  made  awful  with  the  night  — 

Great   glimmering   trunks   whose   tops   were   hid    in 

gloom, 

Vast  columns  in  the  blackness  broken  off, 
Between  whose  ghostly  forms,  slow-wandering, 
A  company  of  lost  men  sought  a  path. 

Some   groped   among  the   dead   leaves   and    fallen 

boughs 

For  footprints  ;   but  the  rattle  of  the  leaves 
And  crook  of  stems  seemed  serpents  coiled  to  strike 

Some  took  the  momentary  sparks  that  rode 
Upon  their  straining  eyeballs,  for  far  lights, 
And  followed  them. 

Some  stood  apart,  in  vain 
Searching,  with  horror-widened  eyes,  for  stars. 

So,  stumbling  on,  they  circled  round  and  round 
Through  the  same  mazes. 

Then  they  singled  one 

To  climb  a  pinnacled  height,  and  see  from  thence 
The  landmarks,  and  to  shout  from  thence  their  course. 
With  aching  sinews,  bleeding  feet,  bruised  hands, 
He  gained  the  height ;  but  when  they  cried  to  him 
They  got  but  maudlin  answers,  —  he  had  found, 
Slaking  hot  thirst,  a  fruit  that  maddened  him. 


72  WISDOM    AND    FAME 

Another,  and  another  still  they  sent ; 
But  every  one  that  climbed  found  the  ill  fruit 
And  maddened,  and  gave  back  but  wild  replies  : 
And  still  in  darkness  they  go  wandering,  lost. 


SERENITY 

BROOK, 

Be  still,  —  be  still ! 
Midnight's  arch  is  broken 
In  thy  ceaseless  ripples. 
Dark  and  cold  below  them 
Runs  the  troubled  water,  — 
Only  on  its  bosom, 
Shimmering  and  trembling, 
Doth  the  glinted  star-shine 

Sparkle  and  cease. 

Life, 

Be  still,  —  be  still ! 
Boundless  truth  is  shattered 
On  thy  hurrying  current. 
Rest,  with  face  uplifted, 
Calm,  serenely  quiet ; 
Drink  the  deathless  beauty  — 
Thrills  of  love  and  wonder 
Sinking,  shining,  star-like ; 
Till  the  mirrored  heaven 
Hollow  down  within  thee 
Holy  deeps  unfathomed, 
Where  far  thoughts  go  floating, 
And  low  voices  wander 

Whispering  peace. 


THE  HERMITAGE,  AND   OTHER 
POEMS 

THE    HERMITAGE 

CALIFORNIA,  BAY  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO,  1866 

I 

A  LIFE,  —  a  common,  cleanly,  quiet  life, 
Full  of  good  citizenship  and  repute, 
New,  but  with  promise  of  prosperity, — 
A  well-bred,  fair,  young-gentlemanly  life, — 
What  business  had  a  girl  to  bring  her  eyes, 
And  her  blonde  hair,  and  her  clear,  ringing  voice, 
And  break  up  life,  as  a  bell  breaks  a  dream  ? 
Had  Love  Christ's  wrath,  and  did  this  life  sell  doves 
In  the  world's  temple,  that  Love  scourged  it  forth 
Beyond  the  gates  ?    Within,  the  worshipers, — 
Without,  the  waste,  and  the  hill-country,  where 
The  life,  with  smarting  shoulders  and  stung  heart, 
Unknowing    that    the    hand    which    scourged    could 

heal, 

Drave  forth,  blind,  cursing,  in  despair  to  die, 
Or  work  its  own  salvation  out  in  fear. 


THE    HERMITAGE  75 

Old  World  —  old,  foolish,  wicked  World  —  fare 
well  ! 

Since  the  Time-angel  left  my  soul  with  thee, 
Thou  hast  been  a  hard  stepmother  unto  me. 
Now  I  at  last  rebel 

Against  thy  stony  eyes  and  cruel  hands. 
I  will  go  seek  in  far-off  lands 
Some  quiet  corner,  where  my  years  shall  be 
Still  as  the  shadow  of  a  brooding  bird 
That  stirs  but  with  her  heart-beats.    Far,  unheard 
May  wrangle  on  the  noisy  human  host, 
While  I  will  face  my  Life,  that  silent  ghost, 
And  force  it  speak  what  it  would  have  with  me. 

Not  of  the  fair  young  Earth, 
The  snow-crowned,  sunny-belted  globe ; 
Not  of  its  skies,  nor  Twilight's  purple  robe, 
Nor  pearly  dawn ;   not  of  the  flowers'  birth, 
And  Autumn's  forest-funerals  ;   not  of  storms, 
And  quiet  seas,  and  clouds'  incessant  forms ; 
Not  of  the  sanctuary  of  the  night, 
With  its  solemnities,  nor  any  sight 
And  pleasant  sound  of  all  the  friendly  day  : 
But  I  am  tired  of  what  we  call  our  lives ; 
Tired  of  the  endless  humming  in  the  hives, — 
Sick  of  the  bitter  honey  that  we  eat, 
And  sick  of  cursing  all  the  shallow  cheat. 

Let  me  arise,  and  away 
To  the  land  that  guards  the  dying  day, 


76  THE    HERMITAGE 

Whose  burning  tear,  the  evening-star, 
Drops  silently  to  the  wave  afar; 
The  land  where  summers  never  cease 
Their  sunny  psalm  of  light  and  peace. 
Whose  moonlight,  poured  for  years  untold, 
Has  drifted  down  in  dust  of  gold ; 
Whose  morning  splendors,  fallen  in  showers. 
Leave  ceaseless  sunrise  in  the  flowers. 

There  I  will  choose  some  eyrie  in  the  hills, 
Where  I  may  build,  like  a  lonely  bird, 
And  catch  the  whispered  music  heard 
Out  of  the  noise  of  human  ills. 


So,  I  am  here  at  last ; 

A  purer  world,  whose  feet  the  old,  salt  Past 
Washes  against,  and  leaves  it  fresh  and  free 
As  a  new  island  risen  from  the  sea. 

Three  dreamy  weeks  we  lay  on  Ocean's  breast, 
Rocked  asleep,  by  gentle  winds  caressed, 
Or  crooned  with  wild  wave-lullabies  to  rest. 
A  memory  of  foam  and  glassy  spray ; 
Wave  chasing  wave,  like  young  sea-beasts  at  play ; 
Stretches  of  misty  silver  'neath  the  moon, 
And  night-airs  murmuring  many  a  quiet  tune. 
Three  long,  delicious  weeks'  monotony 
Of  sky,  and  stars,  and  sea, 


THE    HERMITAGE  77 

Broken  midway  by  one  day's  tropic  scene 
Of  giant  plants,  tangles  of  luminous  green, 
With  fiery  flowers  and  purple  fruits  between. 


I  have  found  a  spot  for  my  hermitage, — 
No  dank  and  sunless  cave, — 
I  come  not  for  a  dungeon,  nor  a  cage,  — 
Not  to  be  Nature's  slave, 
But,  as  a  weary  child, 
Unto  the  mother's  faithful  arms  I  flee, 
And  seek  the  sunniest  footstool  at  her  knee, 
Where  I  may  sit  beneath  caresses  mild, 
And  hear  the  sweet  old  songs  that  she  will  sing  to  me. 

'T  is  a  grassy  mountain-nook, 
In  a  gorge,  whose  foaming  brook 
Tumbles  through  from  the  heights  above, 
Merrily  leaping  to  the  light 
From  the  pine-wood's  haunted  gloom, — 
As  a  romping  child, 
Affrighted,  from  a  sombre  room 
Leaps  to  the  sunshine,  laughing  with  delight : 
Be  this  my  home,  by  man's  tread  undefiled. 
Here  sounds  no  voice  but  of  the  mourning  dove, 
Nor  harsher  footsteps  on  the  sands  appear 
Than  the  sharp,  slender  hoof-marks  of  the  deer, 
Or  where  the  quail  has  left  a  zigzag  row 
Of  lightly  printed  stars  her  track  to  show. 


78  THE    HERMITAGE 

Above  me  frowns  a  front  of  rocky  wall, 
Deep  cloven  into  ruined  pillars  tall 
And  sculptures  strange ;  bald  to  its  dizzy  edge, 
Save  where,  in  some  deep  crevice  of  a  ledge 
Buttressed  by  its  black  shadow  hung  below, 
A  solitary  pine  has  cleft  the  rock,  — 
Straight  as  an  arrow,  feathered  to  the  tip, 
As  if  a  shaft  from  the  moon-huntress'  bow 
Had  struck  and  grazed  the  clifPs  defiant  lip, 
And  stood,  still  stiffly  quivering  with  the  shock. 

Beyond  the  gorge  a  slope  runs  half-way  up, 
With  hollow  curve  as  for  a  giant's  cup, 
Brimming  with  blue  pine-shadows  :   then  in  air 
The  gray  rock  rises  bare, 
Its  front  deep-fluted  by  the  sculptor-storms 
In  moulded  columns,  rounded  forms, 
As  if  great  organ-pipes  were  chiseled  there, 
Whose  anthems  are  the  torrent's  roar  below, 
And  chanting  winds  that  through  the  pine-tops  go. 
Here  bursts  of  requiem  music  sink  and  rise, 
When  the  full  moonlight,  slowly  streaming,  lies 
Like  panes  of  gold  on  some  cathedral  pave, 
While  floating  mists  their  silver  incense  wave, 
And  from  on  high,  through  fleecy  window-bars, 
Gaze  down  the  saintly  faces  of  the  stars. 

Against  the  huge  trunk  of  a  storm-snapped  tree, 
(Whose  hollow,  ready-hewn  by  long  decay, 


THE    HERMITAGE  79 

Above,  a  chimney,  lined  with  slate  and  clay, 

Below,  a  broad-arched  fireplace  makes  for  me,) 

I  've  built  of  saplings  and  long  limbs  a  hut. 

The  roof  with  lacing  boughs  is  tightly  shut, 

Thatched  with  thick-spreading  palms  of  pine, 

And  tangled  over  by  a  wandering  vine, 

Uprooted  from  the  woods  close  by, 

Whose  clasping  tendrils  climb  and  twine, 

Waving  their  little  hands  on  high, 

As  if  they  loved  to  deck  this  nest  of  mine. 

Within,  by  smooth  white  stones  from  the  brook's  beach 

My  rooms  are  separated,  each  from  each. 

On  yonder  island-rock  my  table  's  spread, 

Brook-ringed,  that  no  stray,  fasting  ant  may  come 

To  make  himself  with  my  wild  fare  at  home. 

Here  will  I  live,  and  here  my  life  shall  be 
Serene,  still,  rooted  steadfastly, 
Yet  pointing  skyward,  and  its  motions  keep 
A  rhythmic  balance,  as  that  cedar  tall, 
Whose  straight  shaft  rises  from  the  chasm  there, 
Through  the  blue,  hollow  air, 
And,  measuring  the  dizzy  deep, 
Leans  its  long  shadow  on  the  rock's  gray  wall. 


Through  the  sharp  gap  of  the  gorge  below, 
From  my  mountains'  feet  the  gaze  may  go 
Over  a  stretch  of  fields,  broad-sunned, 
Then  glance  beyond, 


8o  THE    HERMITAGE 

Across  the  beautiful  bay, 

To  that  dim  ridge,  a  score  of  miles  away, 

Lifting  its  clear-cut  outline  high, 

Azure  with  distance  on  the  azure  sky, 

Whose  flocks  of  white  clouds  brooding  on  its  crests 

Have  winged  from  ocean  to  their  piny  nests. 

Beyond  the  bright  blue  water's  further  rim, 

Where  waves  seem  ripples  on  its  far-ofF  brim, 

The  rich  young  city  lies, 

Diminished  to  an  ant-hill's  size. 

I  trace  its  steep  streets,  ribbing  all  the  hill 

Like  narrow  bands  of  steel, 

Binding  the  city  on  the  shifting  sand  : 

Thick-pressed  between  them  stand 

Broad  piles  of   buildings,   pricked  through  here   and 

there 

By  a  sharp  steeple  ;   and  above,  the  air 
Murky  with  smoke  and  dust,  that  seem  to  show 
The  bright  sky  saddened  by  the  sin  below. 


The  voice  of  my  wild  brook  is  marvelous  ; 
Leaning  above  it  from  a  jutting  rock 
To  watch  the  image  of  my  face,  that  forms 
And  breaks,  and  forms  again  (as  the  image  of  God 
Is  broken  and  re-gathered  in  a  soul), 
I  listen  to  the  chords  that  sink  and  swell 
From  many  a  little  fall  and  babbling  run. 
That  hollow  gurgle  is  the  deepest  bass ; 


THE    HERMITAGE  81 

Over  the  pebbles  gush  contralto  tones, 
While  shriller  trebles  tinkle  merrily, 
Running,  like  some  enchanted-fingered  flute, 
Endless  chromatics. 

Now  it  is  the  hum 

And  roar  of  distant  streets  ;   the  rush  of  winds 
Through  far-off  forests  :   now  the  noise  of  rain 
Drumming  the  roof;  the  hiss  of  ocean-foam  : 
Now  the  swift  ripple  of  piano-keys 
In  mad  mazurkas,  danced  by  laughing  girls. 

So,  night  and  day,  the  hurrying  brook  goes  on ; 
Sometimes  in  noisy  glee,  sometimes  far  down, 
Silent  along  the  bottom  of  the  gorge, 
Like  a  deep  passion  hidden  in  the  soul, 
That  chafes  in  secret  hunger  for  its  sea : 
Yet  not  so  still  but  that  heaven  finds  its  course ; 
And  not  so  hid  but  that  the  yearning  night 
Broods  over  it,  and  feeds  it  with  her  stars. 


When  earth  has  Eden  spots  like  this  for  man, 
Why  will  he  drag  his  life  where  lashing  storms 
Whip  him  indoors,  the  petulant  weather's  slave  ? 
There  he  is  but  a  helpless,  naked  snail, 
Except  he  wear  his  house  close  at  his  back. 
Here  the  wide  air  builds  him  his  palace  walls, — 
Some  little  corner  of  it  roofed,  for  sleep ; 
Or  he  can  lie  all  night,  bare  to  the  sky, 


82  THE    HERMITAGE 

And  feel  updrawn  against  the  breast  of  heaven, 
Letting  his  thoughts  stretch  out  among  the  stars, 
As  the  antennae  of  an  insect  grope 
Blindly  for  food,  or  as  the  ivy's  shoots 
Clamber  from  cope  and  tower  to  find  the  light, 
And  drink  the  electric  pulses  of  the  sun. 

As  from  that  sun  we  draw  the  coarser  fire 
That    swells   the    veins,   and    builds    the    brain    and 

bone, 

So  from  each  star  a  finer  influence  streams, 
Kindling  within  the  mortal  chrysalis 
The  first  faint  thrills  of  its  new  life  to  come. 

Here  is  no  niggard  gap  of  sky  above, 
With  murk  and  mist  below,  but  all  sides  clear,  — 
Not  an  inch  bated  from  the  full-swung  dome ; 
Each  constellation  to  the  horizon's  rim 
Keen-glittering,  as  if  one  only  need 
Walk  to  the  edge  there,  spread  his  wings,  and  float, 
The  dark  earth  spurned  behind,  into  the  blue. 


I  love  thee,  thou  brown,  homely,  dear  old  Earth  ! 
Those  fairer  planets  whither  fate  may  lead, 
Whatever  marvel  be  their  bulk  or  speed, 
Ringed  with  what  splendor,  belted  round  with  fire, 
In  glory  of  perpetual  moons  arrayed, 
Can  ne'er  give  back  the  glow  and  fresh  desire 
Of  youth  in  that  old  home  where  man  had  birth, 


THE    HERMITAGE  83 

Whose  paths  he  trod  through  wholesome  light  and 

shade. 

Out  of  their  silver  radiance  to  thy  dim 
And  clouded  orb  his  eye  will  turn, 
As  an  old  man  looks  back  to  where  he  played 
About  his  father's  hearth,  and  finds  for  him 
No  splendor  like  the  fires  which  there  did  burn. 

See :   I  am  come  to  live  alone  with  thee. 
Thou  hast  had  many  a  one,  grown  old  and  worn, 
Come  to  thee  weary  and  forlorn, 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  human  vanity. 
But  I  come  with  my  life  almost  untried, 
In  thy  perpetual  presence  to  abide. 
Teach  me  thy  wisdom ;   let  me  learn  the  flowers, 
And  know  the  rocks  and  trees, 
And  touch  the  springs  of  all  thy  hidden  powers. 
Let  the  still  gloom  of  thy  rock-fastnesses 
Fall  deep  upon  my  spirit,  till  the  voice 
Of  brooks  become  familiar,  and  my  heart  rejoice 
With  joy  of  birds  and  winds  ;   and  all  the  hours, 
Unmaddened  by  the  babble  of  vain  men, 
Bring  thy  most  inner  converse  to  my  ken. 
So  shall  it  be,  that,  when  I  stand 
On  that  next  planet's  ruddy-shimmering  strand, 
I  shall  not  seem  a  pert  and  forward  child 
Seeking  to  dabble  in  abstruser  lore 
With  alphabet  unlearned,  who  in  disgrace 
Returns,  upon  his  primer  yet  to  pore  — 


84  THE    HERMITAGE 

But  those  examiners,  all  wise  and  mild, 

Shall  gently  lead  me  to  my  place, 

As  one  that  faithfully  did  trace 

These  simpler  earthly  records  o'er  and  o'er. 


Beckoned  at  sunrise  by  the  surf's  white  hand, 
I  have  strayed  down  to  sit  upon  the  beach, 
And  hear  the  oratorio  of  the  Sea. 
On     this    steep,    crumbling    bank,    where    the    high 

tides 

Have  crunched  the  earth  away,  a  crooked  oak  — 
A  hunch-backed  dwarf,  whose  limbs,  cramped  down 

by  gales, 

Have  twisted  stiffening  back  upon  themselves  — 
Spreads  me  a  little  arbor  from  the  sun. 

On  the  brown,  shining  beach,  all  ripple-carved, 
Gleams    now    and     then     a    pool ;     so    smooth    and 

clear, 

That,  though  I  cannot  see  the  plover  there 
Pacing  its  farther  edge  (so  much  he  looks 
The  color  of  the  sand),  yet  I  can  trace 
His  image  hanging  in  the  glassy  brine  — 
Slim  legs  and  rapier-beak  —  like  silver-plate 
With  such  a  pictured  bird  clean-etched  upon  it. 

Beyond,  long  curves  of  little  shallow  waves 
Creep,  tremulous  with  ripples,  to  the  shore, 


GLEAMS   NOW    AND    THEN    A    POOL  SO    SMOOTH   AND   CLEAR 


THE    HERMITAGE  85 

Till  the  whole  bay  seems  slowly  sliding  in, 
With  edge  of  snow  that  melts  against  the  sand. 

Above  its  twinkling  blue,  where  ceaselessly 
The  white  curve  of  a  slender  arm  of  foam 
Is  reached  along  the  water,  and  withdrawn, 
A  flock  of  sea-birds  darken  into  specks  ; 
Then  whiten,  as  they  wheel  with  sunlit  wings, 
Winking  and  wavering  against  the  sky. 

The  earth  for  form,  the  sea  for  coloring, 
And  overhead,  fair  daughters  of  the  two, 
The  clouds,  whose  curves  were  moulded  on  the  hills, 
Whose  tints  of  pearl  and  foam  the  ocean  gave. 

O  Sea,  thou  art  all-beautiful,  but  dumb  ! 
Thou  hast  no  utterance  articulate 
For  human  ears  ;  only  a  restless  moan 
Of  barren  tides,  that  loathe  the  living  earth 
As  alien,  striving  towards  the  barren  moon. 
Thou  art  no  longer  infinite  to  man  : 
Has  he  not  touched  thy  boundary-shores,  and  new 
Laid  his  electric  fetters  round  thy  feet  ? 
Thy  dumb  moan  saddens  me  ;   let  me  go  back 
And  listen  to  the  silence  of  the  hills. 


At  last  I  live  alone  : 
No  human  judgment-seats  are  here 


86  THE    HERMITAGE 

Thrust  in  between  man  and  his  Maker's  throne, 
With  praise  to  covet,  or  with  frown  to  fear : 
No  small,  distorted  judgments  bless,  or  blame ; 
Only  to  Him  I  own 
The  inward  sense  of  worth,  or  flush  of  shame. 

God  made  the  man  alone  ; 
And  all  that  first  grand  morning  walked  he  so. 
Then  was  he  strong  and  wise,  till  at  the  noon, 
When  tired  with  joyous  wonder  he  lay  prone 
For  rest  and  sleep,  God  let  him  know 
The  subtile  sweetness  that  is  bound  in  Two. 

Man  rises  best  alone  : 

Upward  his  thoughts  stream,  like  the  leaping  flame, 
Whose  base  is  tempest-blown ; 

Upward  and  skyward,  since  from  thence  they  came, 
And  thither  they  must  flow. 
But  when  in  twos  we  go, 
The  lightnings  of  the  brain  weave  to  and  fro, 
Level  across  the  abyss  that  parts  us  all ; 
If  upward,  only  slantwise,  as  we  scale 
Slowly  together  that  night-shrouded  wall 
Which  bounds  our  reason,  lest  our  reason  fail. 
If  linked  in  threes,  and  fives, 
However  heavenward  the  spirit  strives, 
The  lowest  stature  draws  the  highest  down, — 
The  king  must  keep  the  level  of  the  clown. 
The  grosser  matter  has  the  greater  power 


THE    HERMITAGE  87 

In  all  attraction  ;   every  hour 

We  slide  and  slip  to  lower  scales, 

Till  weary  aspiration  fails, 

And   that   keen   fire   which   might   have   pierced  the 

skies 
Is  quenched  and  killed  in  one  another's  eyes. 


A  child  had  blown  a  bubble  fair 
That  floated  in  the  sunny  air : 
A  hundred  rainbows  danced  and  swung 
Upon  its  surface,  as  it  hung 
In  films  of  changing  color  rolled, 
Crimson,  and  amethyst,  and  gold, 
With  faintest  streaks  of  azure  sheen, 
And  curdling  rivulets  of  green. 
"  If  so  the  surface  shines,"  cried  he, 
"  What  marvel  must  the  centre  be  !  " 
He  caught  it  —  on  his  empty  hands 
A  drop  of  turbid  water  stands  ! 

With  men,  to  help  the  moments  fly, 
I  tossed  the  ball  of  talk  on  high, 
With  glancing  jest,  and  random  stings, 
Grazing  the  crests  of  thoughts  and  things, 
In  many  a  shifting  ray  of  speech 
That  shot  swift  sparkles,  each  to  each. 
I  thought,  "  Ah,  could  we  pierce  below 
To  inner  soul,  what  depths  would  show  !  " 


88  THE    HERMITAGE 

In  friendships  many,  loves  a  few, 
I  pierced  the  inner  depths,  and  knew 
'T  was  but  the  shell  that  splendor  caught : 
Within,  one  sour  and  selfish  thought. 

I  found  a  grotto,  hidden  in  the  gorge, 
Paved  by  the  brook  in  rare  mosaic  work 
Of  sand,  and  lucent  depths,  and  shadow-streaks 
Veining  the  amber  of  the  sun-dyed  wave. 
Between  two  mossy  masses  of  gray  rock 
Lay  a  clear  basin,  which,  with  sun  and  shade 
Bewitched,  a  great  transparent  opal  made, 
Over  whose  broken  rims  the  water  ran. 
Above  each  rocky  side  leaned  waving  trees 
Whose  lace  of  branches  wove  a  restless  roof, 
Trailed  over  by  green  vines  that  sifted  down 
A  dust  of  sunshine  through  the  chilly  shade. 

Leaning  against  a  trunk  of  oak,  rock-wedged, 
Whose  writhen  roots  were  clenched  upon  the  stones, 
I  was  a  Greek,  and  caught  the  sudden  flash 
Of  a  scared  Dryad's  vanishing  robe,  and  heard 
The  laughter,  half-suppressed,  of  hiding  Fauns. 
Up  the  dark  stairway  of  the  tumbling  stream 
The  sun  shot  through,  and  struck  each  foamy  fall 
Into  a  silvery  veil  of  dazzling  fire. 
Along  its  shady  course,  the  tossing  drops 
By  some  swift  sunbeam  ever  caught,  were  lit 
To  sparkling  stars,  that  fell,  and  flashed,  and  fell, 


THE    HERMITAGE  89 

Incessantly  rekindled.    Bubble-troops 
Came  dancing  by,  to  break  just  at  my  feet ; 
Lo  !   every  bubble  mirrored  the  whole  scene  — 
The  streak  of  blue  between  the  roofing-boughs, 
And  on  it  my  own  face  in  miniature 
Quaintly  distorted,  as  if  some  small  elf 
Peered  up  at  me  beneath  his  glassy  dome. 


If  men  but  knew  the  mazes  of  the  brain 
And  all  its  crowded  pictures,  they  would  need 
No  Louvre  or  Vatican  :   behind  our  brows 
Intricate  galleries  are  built,  whose  walls 
Are  rich  with  all  the  splendors  of  a  life. 
Each  crimson  leaf  of  every  autumn  walk, 
Dewdrops  of  childhood's  mornings,  every  scene 
From  any  window  where  we  've  chanced  to  stand, 
Forgotten  sunsets,  summer  afternoons, 
Hang  fresh  in  those  immortal  galleries. 
Few  ever  can  unlock  them,  till  great  Death 
Unrolls  our  lifelong  memory  as  a  scroll. 
One  key  is  solitude,  and  silence  one,    " 
And  one  a  quiet  mind,  content  to  rest 
In  God's  sufficiency,  and  take  His  world, 
Not  dabbling  all  the  Master's  work  to  death 
With  our  small  interference.    God  is  God. 

Yet  we  must  give  the  children  leave  to  use 
Our  garden-tools,  though  they  spoil  tool  and  plant 


90  THE    HERMITAGE 

In  learning.    So  the  Master  may  not  scorn 
Our  awkwardness,  as  with  these  bungling  hands 
We  try  to  uproot  the  ill,  and  plant  with  good 
Life's  barren  soil :   the  child  is  learning  use. 
Perhaps  the  angels  even  are  forbid 
To  laugh  at  us,  or  may  not  care  to  laugh, 
With  kind  eyes  pitying  our  little  hurts. 

'T  is  ludicrous  that  man  should  think  he  roams 
Freely  at  will  a  world  planned  for  his  use. 
Lo,  what  a  mite  he  is  !    Snatched  hither  and  yon, 
Tossed  round  the  sun,  and  in  its  orbit  flashed 
Round  other  centres,  orbits  without  end  ; 
His  bit  of  brain  too  small  to  even  feel 
The  spinning  of  the  little  hailstone,  Earth. 
So  his  creeds  glibly  prate  of  choice  and  will, 
When  his  whole  fate  is  an  invisible  speck 
Whirled  through  the  orbits  of  Eternity. 


We  think  that  we  believe 
That  human  souls  shall  live,  and  live, 
,  When  trees  have  rotted  into  mould, 
And  all  the  rocks  which  these  long  hills  enfold 
Have  crumbled,  and  beneath  new  oceans  lie. 
But  why  —  ah,  why  — 
If  puny  man  is  not  indeed  to  die, 
Watch  I  with  such  disdain 
That  human  speck  creeping  along  the  plain, 


THE    HERMITAGE  91 

And  turn  with  such  a  careless  scorn  of  men 

Back  to  the  mountain's  brow  again, 

And   feel    more    pleased   that   some   small,  fluttering 

thing 

Trusts  me  and  hovers  near  on  fearless  wing, 
Than  if  the  proudest  man  in  all  the  land 
Had  offered  me  in  friendliness  his  hand  ? 


However  small  the  present  creature  man,— 
Ridiculous  imitation  of  the  gods, 
Weak  plagiarism  on  some  completer  world,  — 
Yet  we  can  boast  of  that  strong  race  to  be. 
The  savage  broke  the  attraction  which  binds  fast 
The  fibres  of  the  oak,  and  we  to-day 
By  cunning  chemistry  can  force  apart 
The  elements  of  the  air.    That  coming  race 
Shall  loose  the  bands  by  which  the  earth  attracts ; 
A  drop  of  occult  tincture,  a  spring  touched 
Shall  outwit  gravitation ;   men  shall  float, 
Or  lift  the  hills  and  set  them  where  they  will. 
The  savage  crossed  the  lake,  and  we  the  sea. 
That  coming  race  shall  have  no  bounds  or  bars, 
But,  like  the  fledgeling  eaglet,  leave  the  nest,  — 
Our  earthly  eyrie  up  among  the  stars,  — 
And  freely  soar,  to  tread  the  desolate  moon, 
Or  mingle  with  the  neighbor  folk  of  Mars. 
Yea,  if  the  savage  learned  by  sign  and  sound 
To  bridge  the  chasm  to  his  fellow's  brain, 


92  THE    HERMITAGE 

Till  now  we  flash  our  whispers  round  the  globe, 
That  race  shall  signal  over  the  abyss 
To  those  bright  souls  who  throng  the  outer  courts 
Of  life,  impatient  who  shall  greet  men  first 
And  solve  the  riddles  that  we  die  to  know. 


'T  is  night :   I  sit  alone  among  the  hills. 
There  is  no  sound,  except  the  sleepless  brook, 
Whose  voice  comes  faintly  from  the  depths  below 
Through  the  thick  darkness,  or  the  sombre  pines 
That  slumber,  murmuring  sometimes  in  their  dreams. 
Hark !   on  a  fitful  gust  there  came  the  sound 
Of  the  tide  rising  yonder  on  the  bay. 
It  dies  again  :   't  was  like  the  rustling  noise 
Of  a  great  army  mustering  secretly. 
There  rose  an  owl's  cry,  from  the  woods  below, 
Like  a  lost  spirit's.  —  Now  all  's  still  again.  — 
'T  is  almost  fearful  to  sit  here  alone 
And  feel  the  deathly  silence  and  the  dark. 
I  will  arise  and  shout,  and  hear  at  least 
My  own  voice  answer.  —  Not  an  echo  even  ! 
I  wish  I  had  not  uttered  that  wild  cry ; 
It  broke  with  such  a  shock  upon  the  air, 
Whose  leaden  silence  closed  up  after  it, 
And  seemed  to  clap  together  at  my  ears. 
The  black  depths  of  these  muffled  woods  are  thronged 
With  shapes  that  wait  some  signal  to  swoop  out, 
And  swirl  around  and  madden  me  with  fear. 


THE    HERMITAGE  93 

I  will  go  climb  that  bare  and  rocky  height 
Into  the  clearer  air. 

So,  here  I  breathe ; 

That  silent  darkness  smothered  me. 

Away 

Across  the  bay,  the  city  with  its  lights 
Twinkling  against  the  horizon's  dusky  line, 
Looks  a  sea-dragon,  crawled  up  on  the  shore, 
With  rings  of  fire  across  his  rounded  back, 
And  luminous  claws  spread  out  among  the  hills. 
Above,  the  glittering  heavens.  —  Magnificent ! 
Oh,  if  a  man  could  be  but  as  a  star, 
Having  his  place  appointed,  here  to  rise, 
And  there  to  set,  unchanged  by  earthly  change, 
Content  if  it  can  guide  some  wandering  bark, 
Or  be  a  beacon  to  some  homesick  soul ! 

Those  city-lights  again  :   they  draw  my  gaze 
As  if  some  secret  human  sympathy 
Still  held  my  heart  down  from  the  lonely  heaven. 
A  new-born  constellation,  settling  there 
Below  the  Sickle's  ruby-hilted  curve, 
They  gleam  —     —  Not  so  !    No  constellation  they  ; 
I  mock  the  sad,  strong  stars  that  never  fail 
In  their  eternal  patience ;   from  below 
Comes  that  pale  glare,  like  the  faint,  sulphurous  flame 
Which  plays  above  the  ashes  of  a  fire  : 
So  trembles  the  dull  flicker  of  those  lamps 
Over  the  burnt-out  energies  of  man. 


94  THE    HERMITAGE 

II 

A  month  since  I  last  laid  my  pencil  down,— 
An  April,  fairer  than  the  Atlantic  June, 
Whose  calendar  of  perfect  days  was  kept 
By  daily  blossoming  of  some  new  flower. 
The  fields,  whose  carpets  now  were  silken  white, 
Next  week  were  orange-velvet,  next,  sea-blue. 
It  was  as  if  some  central  fire  of  bloom, 
From  which  in  other  climes  a  random  root 
Is  now  and  then  shot  up,  here  had  burst  forth 
And  overflowed  the  fields,  and  set  the  land 
Aflame  with  flowers.      I  watched  them  day  by  day, 
How  at  the  dawn  they  wake,  and  open  wide 
Their  little  petal-windows,  how  they  turn 
Their  slender  necks  to  follow  round  the  sun, 
And  how  the  passion  they  express  all  day 
In  burning  color,  steals  forth  with  the  dew 
All  night  in  odor. 

I  have  wandered  much 

These  weeks,  but  everywhere  a  restless  mind 
Has  dogged  me  like  the  shadow  at  my  heels. 
Sometimes  I  watched  the  morning  mist  arise, 
Like  an  imprisoned  Genie  from  the  stream, 
And  wished  that  death  would  come  on  me  like  dawn, 
Drawing  the  spirit,  that  white,  vaporous  mist, 
Up  from  this  noisy,  fretted  stream  of  life, 
To  fall  where  God  will,  in  his  bounteous  showers. 


THE    HERMITAGE  95 

Sometimes  I  walked  at  sunset  on  the  edge 

Of  the  steep  gorge,  and  saw  my  shadow  pace 

Along  a  shadow-wall  across  the  abyss, 

And  felt  that  we,  with  all  our  phantom  deeds, 

Are  but  far-slanted  shadows  of  some  life 

That  walks  between  our  planet  and  its  God. 

All  the  long  nights  —  those  memory-haunted  nights, 

When  sleepless  conscience  would  not  let  me  sleep, 

But  stung,  and  stung,  and  pointed  to  the  world 

Which  like  a  coward  I  had  left  behind, 

I  watched  the  heavens,  where  week  by  week  the  moon 

Slow  swelled  its  silver  bud,  blossomed  full  gold, 

And  slowly  faded. 

Laid  the  pencil  down  — 

Why  not  ?    Are  there  not  books  enough  ?    Is  man 
A  sick  child  that  must  be  amused  by  songs, 
Or  be  made  sicker  with  their  foolish  noise  ? 

Then  illness  came  :   I  should  have  argued,  once, 
That  the  ill  body  gave  me  those  ill  thoughts ; 
But  I  have  learned  that  spirit,  though  it  be 
Subtile,  and  hard  to  trace,  is  mightier 
Than  matter,  and  I  know  the  poisoned  mind 
Poisoned  its  shell.    Three  days  of  fever-fire 
Burned  out  my  strength,  leaving  me  scarcely  power 
To  reach  the  brook's  side  and  my  scanty  food. 
What  would  I  not  have  given  to  hear  the  voice 
Of  some  one  who  would  raise  my  throbbing  head 


96  THE    HERMITAGE 

And  shade  the  fevering  sun,  and  cool  my  hand 

In  her  moist  palms  !    But  I  lay  there,  alone. 

Blessed  be  sickness,  which  cuts  down  our  pride 

And  bares  our  helplessness.    I  have  had  new  thoughts. 

I  think  the  fever  burned  away  some  lies 

Which  clogged  the  truthful  currents  of  the  brain. 

Am  I  quite  happy  here  ?    Have  I  the  right, 

As  wholly  independent,  to  scorn  men  ? 

What  do  I  owe  them  —  self?    Should  I  be  I, 

Born  in  these  hills  ?    A  savage  rather  !    Food, 

The  sailor-bread  ?    Yes,  that  took  mill  and  men  : 

Yet  flesh  and  fowl  are  free ;   but  powder  and  gun  - 

What  human  lives  went  to  the  making  of  them  ? 

I  am  dependent  as  the  villager 

Who  lives  by  the  white  wagon's  daily  round. 

Yea,  better  feed  upon  the  ox,  to  which 

The  knife  is  mercy  after  slavery, 

Than  kill  the  innocent  birds,  and  trustful  deer 

Whose  big  blue  eyes  have  almost  human  pain ; 

That  's  murder  ! 

I  scorned  books  :   to  those  same  books 
I  owe  the  power  to  scorn  them. 

I  despised 

Men  :   from  themselves  I  drew  the  pure  ideal 
By  which  to  measure  them. 

At  woman's  love 

I  laughed  :   but  to  that  love  I  owe 
The  hunger  for  a  more  abiding  love. 
Their  nestlings  in  our  hearts  leave  vacant  there 


THE    HERMITAGE  97 

These  hollow  places,  like  a  lark's  round  nest 
Left  empty  in  the  grass,  and  filled  with  flowers. 

What  do  I  here  alone  ?    'T  was  not  so  strange, 
Weary  of  discords,  that  I  chose  to  hear 
The  one,  clear,  perfect  note  of  solitude ; 
But  now  it  plagues  the  ear,  that  one  shrill  note : 
Give  me  the  chords  back,  even  though  some  ring  false. 


Unmarried  to  the  steel,  the  flint  is  cold  : 
Strike  one  to  the  other,  and  they  wake  in  fire. 

A  solitary  fagot  will  not  burn  : 
Bring  two,  and  cheerily  the  flame  ascends. 
Alone,  man  is  a  lifeless  stone ;   or  lies 
A  charring  ember,  smouldering  into  ash. 


If  the  man  riding  yonder  looks  a  speck, 
The  town  an  ant-hill,  that  is  but  the  trick 
Of  our  perspective  :   wisdom  merely  means 
Correction  of  the  angles  at  the  eye. 
I  hold  my  hand  up,  so,  before  my  face,  — 
It  blots  ten  miles  of  country,  and  a  town. 
This  little  lying  lens,  that  twists  the  rays, 
So  cheats  the  brain  that  My  house,  My  affairs, 
My  hunger,  or  My  happiness,  My  ache, 
And  My  religion,  fill  immensity  ! 


98  THE    HERMITAGE 

Yours  merely  dot  the  landscape  casually. 

'T  is  well  God  does  not  measure  a  man's  worth 

By  the  image  on  his  neighbor's  retina. 


I  am  alone  :   the  birds  care  not  for  me, 
Except  to  sing  a  little  farther  off, 
With  looks  that  say,  "  What  does  this  fellow  here  : 
The  loud  brook  babbles  only  for  the  flowers  : 
The  mountain  and  the  forest  take  me  not 
Into  their  meditations  ;   I  disturb 
Their  silence,  as  a  child  that  drags  his  toy 
Across  a  chapel's  porch.    The  viewless  ones 
Who  flattered  me  to  claim  their  company 
By  gleams  of  thought  they  tossed  to  me  for  alms,. 
About  their  grander  matters  turn,  nor  deign 
To  notice  me,  unless  it  were  to  say  — 
As  we  put  off  a  troublesome  child  —  "  There,  go  ! 
Men  are  your  fellows,  go  and  mate  with  them  !  " 


If  I  could  find  one  soul  that  would  not  lie, 
I  would  go  back,  a«id  we  would  arm  our  hands> 
And  strike  at  every  ugly  weed  that  stands 

In  God's  wide  garden  of  the  world,  and  try, 
Obedient  to  the  Gardener's  commands, 

To  set  some  smallest  flowers  before  we  die. 

One  such  I  had  found,— 
But  she  was  bound, 


THE    HERMITAGE  99 

Fettered  and  led,  bid  for  and  sold, 
Chained  to  a  stone  by  a  ring  of  gold. 

In  a  stony  sense  the  stone  loved  her,  too  : 
Between  our  places  the  river  was  broad, 
Should  she  tread  on  a  broken  heart  to  go  through  — 
Could  she  put  a  man's  life  in  mid-stream  to  be  trod, 
To  come  over  dry-shod  ? 


Shame !   that  a  man  with  hand  and  brain 
Should,  like  a  love-lorn  girl,  complain, 
Rhyming  his  dainty  woes  anew, 
When  there  is  honest  work  to  do  ! 

What  work,  what  work  ?    Is  God  not  wise 
To  rule  the  world  He  could  devise  ? 
Yet  see  thou,  though  the  realm  be  His, 
He  governs  it  by  deputies. 
Enough  to  know  of  Chance  and  Luck, 
The  stroke  we  choose  to  strike  is  struck ; 
The  deed  we  slight  will  slighted  be, 
In  spite  of  all  Necessity. 
The  Parcae's  web  of  good  and  ill 
They  weave  with  human  shuttle  still, 
And  fate  is  fate  through  man's  free  will. 


With  sullen  thoughts  that  smoulder  hour  by  hour 
In  vague  expectancy  of  help  or  hope 


ioo  THE    HERMITAGE 

Which  still  eludes  my  brain,  waiting  I  sit 

Like  a  blind  beggar  at  a  palace-gate, 

Who  hears  the  rustling  past  of  silks,  and  airs 

Of  costly  odor  mock  him  blowing  by, 

And  feels  within  a  dull  and  aching  wish 

That  the  proud  wall  would  let  some  coping  down 

To  crush  him  dead,  and  let  him  have  his  rest. 

No  help  from  men  :  they  could  not,  if  they  would. 
And  God  ?    He  lets  His  world  be  wrung  with  pain. 
No  help  at  all  then  ?    Let  life  be  in  vain  : 
To  get  no  help  is  surely  greatest  gain  ; 
To  taunt  the  hunger  down  is  sweetest  food. 


O  mocker,  Memory  !    From  what  floating  cloud, 
Or  from  what  witchery  of  the  haunted  wood, 
Or  faintest  perfumes,  softly  drifting  through 
The  lupines'  lattice-bars  of  white  and  blue, 
Steals  back  upon  my  soul  this  weaker  mood  ? 
My  heart  is  dreaming ;  —  in  a  shadowy  room 
I  breathe  the  vague  scent  of  a  jasmin-bloom 
That  floats  on  waves  of  music,  softer  played, 
Till  song  and  odor  all  the  brain  pervade; 
Swiftly  across  my  cheek  there  sweeps  the  thrill 
Of  burning  lips, — then  all  is  hushed  and  still; 
And  round  the  vision  in  unearthly  awe 
Deeps  of  enchanted  starlight  seem  to  draw, 
In  which  my  soul  sinks,  falling  noiselessly  — 


ERMITAGE  101 

As  from  a  lone  ship,  far-off,  in  the  night, 
Out  of  a  child's  hand  slips  a  pebble  white, 
Glimmering  and  fading  down  the  awful  sea. 


That  night,  which  pushed  me  out  of  Paradise, 
When  the  last  guest  had  taken  his  mask  of  smiles 
And  gone,  she  wheeled  a  sofa  from  the  light 
Where  I  sat  touching  the  piano-keys, 
And  begged  me  play  her  weariness  away. 
I  played  all  sweet  and  solemn  airs  I  knew, 
And  when,  with  music  mesmerized,  she  slept, 
I  made  the  deep  chords  tell  her  dreams  my  love. 
Once,  when  they  grew  too  passionate,  I  saw 
The  faint  blush  ripen  in  their  glow,  and  chide, 
Even  in  dreams,  the  rash,  tumultuous  thought. 
Then  when  I  made  them  say,  "  Sleep  on,  dream  on, 
For  now  we  are  together ;   when  thou  wak'st 
Forevermore  we  are  alone  —  alone," 
She  sighed  in  sleep,  and  waked  not :   then  I  rose, 
And  softly  stooped  my  head,  and,  half  in  awe, 
Half  passion-rapt,  I  kissed  her  lips  farewell. 

Only  the  meek-mouthed  blossoms  kiss  I  now, 

Or  the  cold  cheek  that  sometimes  comes  at  night 
In  haunted  dreams,  and  brushes  past  my  own. 

Ah,  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  me,  sweet  song  — 
Why  hauntest  thou  and  vexest  so  my  dreams  ? 
Have  I  not  turned  away  from  thee  so  long  — 


102  THE    HERMITAGE 

So  long,  and  yet  the  starry  midnight  seems 
Astir  with  tremulous  music,  as  of  old, — 
Forbidden  memories  opening,  fold  on  fold  ? 

O  ghost  of  Love,  why,  with  thy  rose-leaf  lips, 
Dost  thou  still  mock  my  sleep  with  kisses  warm, 

Torturing  my  dreams  with  touching  finger  tips, 
That  madden  me  to  clasp  thy  phantom  form  ? 

Have  I  not  earned,  by  all  these  tears,  at  last, 

The  right  to  rest  untroubled  by  that  Past  ? 


Unto  thy  patient  heart,  my  mother  Earth, 
I  come,  a  weary  child. 

I  have  no  claim,  save  that  thou  gav'st  me  birth, 
And  hast  sustained  me  with  thy  nurture  mild. 
I  have  stood  up  alone  these  many  years ; 
Now  let  me  come  and  lie  upon  my  face, 
And  spread  my  hands  among  the  dewy  grass, 
Till  the  slow  wind's  mesmeric  touches  pass 
Above  my  brain,  and  all  its  throbbing  chase  ; 
Into  thy  bosom  take  these  bitter  tears, 
And  let  them  seem  unto  the  innocent  flowers 
Only  as  dew,  or  heaven's  gentle  showers ; 
Till,  quieted  and  hushed  against  thy  breast, 
I  can  forget  to  weep, 
And  sink  at  last  to  sleep, — 
Long  sleep  and  rest. 


THE    HERMITAGE  103 

Her  face  ! 

It  must  have  been  her  face, — 
No  other  one  was  ever  half  so  fair,  — 
No  other  head  e'er  bent  with  such  meek  grace 
Beneath  that  weight  of  beautiful  blonde  hair. 
In  a  carriage  on  the  street  of  the  town, 
Where  I  had  strayed  in  walking  from  the  bay, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  going  down, 
Shielding  her  sight  from  his  latest  ray, 
She  sat,  and  scanned  with  eager  eye 
The  faces  of  the  passers-by. 
Whom  was  she  looking  for  ?    Not  me  — 
Yet  what  wild  purpose  can  it  be 
That  tempted  her  to  this  wild  land  ? 
-  I  marked  that  on  her  lifted  hand 
The  diamonds  no  longer  shine 
Of  the  ring  that  meant,  not  mine —  not  mine  ! 

Ah  fool  —  fool  —  fool !  crawl  back  to  thy  den, 
Like  a  wounded  beast  as  thou  art,  again; 
Whosever  she  be,  not  thine  —  not  thine  ! 


I  sat  last  night  on  yonder  ridge  of  rocks 
To  see  the  sun  set  over  Tamalpais, 
Whose  tented  peak,  suffused  with  rosy  mist, 
Blended  the  colors  of  the  sea  and  sky 
And  made  the  mountain  one  great  amethyst 
Hanging  against  the  sunset. 


io4  THE    HERMITAGE 

In  the  west 

There  lay  two  clouds  which  parted  company, 
Floating  like  two  soft-breasted  swans,  and  sailed 
Farther  and  farther  separate,  till  one  stayed 
To  make  a  mantle  for  the  evening-star ; 
The  other  wept  itself  away  in  rain. 
A  fancy  seized  me;  —  if,  in  other  worlds, 
That  Spirit  from  afar  should  call  to  me  ! 
Across  some  starry  chasm  impassable, 
Weeping,  u  Oh,  hadst  thou  only  come  to  me  !  — 
I  loved  you  so  !  —  I  prayed  each  night  that  God 
Would  send  you  to  me  !    Now,  alas  !   too  late, 
Too  late  —  farewell  !  "  and  still  again,  "  farewell !  " 
Like  the  pulsation  of  a  silenced  bell 
Whose  sobs  beat  on  within  the  brain. 

I  rose, 

And  smote  my  staff  strongly  against  the  ground, 
And  set  my  face  homeward,  and  set  my  heart 
Firm  in  a  passionate  purpose  :  there,  in  haste, 
With  that  one  echo  goading  me  to  speed, 
"  If  it  should  be  too  late  —  if  it  should  be 
Too  late  —  too  late  !  "  I  took  a  pen  and  wrote  : 

"  Dear  Soul,  if  I  am  mad  to  speak  to  thee, 
And  this  faint  glimmer  which  I  call  a  hope 
Be  but  the  corpse-light  on  the  grave  of  hope  — 
If  thou,  O  darling  Star,  art  in  the  West 
To  be  my  Evening-star,  and  watch  my  day 


THE    HERMITAGE  105 

Fade  slowly  into  desolate  twilight,  burn 

This  folly  in  the  flames ;  and  scattered  with 

Its  ashes,  let  my  madness  be  forgot. 

But  if  not  so,  oh  be  my  Morning-star, 

And  crown  my  East  with  splendor  :   come  to  me  !  " 


A  stern,  wild,  broken  place  for  a  man  to  walk 
And  muse  on  broken  fortunes;   a  rare  place, — 
There  in  the  Autumn  weather,  cool  and  still, 
With  the  warm  sunshine  clinging  round  the  rocks 
Softly,  in  pity,  like  a  woman's  love, — 
To  wait  for  some  one  who  can  never  come 
As  a  man  there  was  waiting.    Overhead 
A  happy  bird  sang  quietly  to  himself, 
Unconscious  of  such  sombre  thoughts  below, 
To  which  the  song  was  background  :  — 

u  Yet  how  men 

Sometimes  will  struggle,  writhe,  and  scream  at  death  ! 
It  were  so  easy  now,  in  the  mild  air, 
To  close  the  senses,  slowly  sleep,  and  die  ; 
To  cease  to  be  the  shaped  and  definite  cloud, 
And  melt  away  into  the  fathomless  blue ;  — 
Only  to  touch  this  crimson  thread  of  life, 
Whose  steady  ripple  pulses  in  my  wrist, 
And  watch  the  little  current  soak  the  grass, 
Till  the  haze  came,  then  darkness,  and  then  rest. 
Would  God  be  angry  if  I  stopped  one  life 


io6  THE    HERMITAGE 

Among  His  myriads  —  such  a  worthless  one  ? 

If  I  should  pray,  I  wonder  would  He  send 

An  angel  down  out  of  that  great,  white  cloud, 

(He  surely  could  spare  one  from  praising  Him,) 

To  tell  if  there  is  any  better  way 

Than  —  Look  !    Why,  that  is  grand,  now  !    (Am  I 

mad  ? 

I  did  not  think  I  should  go  mad !)    That  's  grand  — 
One  of  the  blessed  spirits  come  like  this 
To  meet  a  poor,  lean  man  among  the  rocks, 
And  answer  questions  for  him  ?  " 

There  she  stood, 

With  blonde  hair  blowing  back,  as  if  the  breeze 
Blew  a  light  out  of  it,  that  ever  played 
And  hovered  at  her  shoulders.    Such  blue  eyes 
Mirrored  the  dreamy  mountain  distances,  — 
(Yet,  are  the  angels'  faces  thin  and  wan 
Like  that ;   and  do  they  have  such  mouths,  so  drawn, 
As  if  a  sad  song,  some  sad  time,  had  died 
Upon  the  lips,  and  left  its  echo  there  ?) 

And  the  man  rose,  and  stood  with  folded  hands 
And  head  bent,  and  his  downcast  looks  in  awe 
Touching  her  garment's  hem,  that,  when  she  spoke, 
Trembled  a  little  where  it  met  her  feet. 

"  I  am  come,  because  you  called  to  me  to  come. 
What  were  all  other  voices  when  I  heard 


THE    HERMITAGE  107 

The  voice  of  my  own  soul's  soul  call  to  me  ? 

You  knew  I  loved  you  —  oh,  you  must  have  known  ! 

Was  it  a  noble  thing  to  do,  you  think, 

To  leave  a  lonely  girl  to  die  down  there 

In  the  great  empty  world,  and  come  up  here 

To  make  a  martyr's  pillar  of  your  pride  ? 

There  has  been  nobler  work  done,  there  in  the  world, 

Than  you  have  done  this  year !  " 

Then  cried  the  man  : 

u  O  voice  that  I  have  prayed  for  —  O  sad  voice, 
And  woeful  eyes,  spare  me  if  I  have  sinned  ! 
There  was  a  little  ring  you  used  to  wear  "  — 

"  O  strange,  wild  Fates,  that  balance  bliss  and  woe 
On  such  poor  straws  !    It  was  a  brother's  gift." 

"You  never  told  me"  — 

"  Did  you  ever  ask  ?  " 
u  You,  too,  were  surely  prouder  then  than  now  !  " 

"  Dear,  I  am  sadder  now :   the  head  must  bend 
A  little,  when  one  's  weeping." 

Then  the  man,  — 

While  half  his  mind,  bewildered,  at  a  flash 
Took  in  the  wide,  lone  place,  the  singing  bird, 
The  sunshine  streaming  past  them  like  a  wind, 


io8  THE    HERMITAGE 

And  the  broad  tree  that  moved  as  though  it  breathed  : 
"  Oh,  if  't  is  possible  that  in  the  world 
There  lies  some  low,  mean  work  for  me  to  do, 
Let  me  go  there  alone  :   I  am  ashamed 
To  wear  life's  crown  when  I  flung  down  its  sword. 
Crammed  full  of  pride,  and  lust,  and  littleness, 
O  God,  I  am  not  worthy  of  thy  gifts  ! 
Let  me  find  penance,  till,  years  hence,  perchance, 
Made    pure    by    toil,    and    scourged   with    pain    and 
prayer  "  — 

Then  a  voice  answered  through  His  creature's  lips, — 
"  God  asks  no  penance  but  a  better  life. 
He  purifies  by  pain  —  He  only  ;   't  is 
A  remedy  too  dangerous  for  our 
Blind  pharmacy.    Lo  !   we  have  tried  that  way, 
And  borne  what  fruit,  or  blossoms  even,  save  one 
Poor  passion-flower  !    Come,  take  thy  happiness  ; 
In  happy  hearts  are  all  the  sunbeams  forged 
That  brighten  up  our  weatherbeaten  world. 
Come   back   with    me  —  Come !   for   I    love   you  — 
Come  !  " 


If  it  was  not  a  dream  :   perchance  it  was  — 
Often  it  seems  so,  and  I  wonder  when 
I  shall  awaken  on  the  mountain-side, 
With  a  little  bitter  taste  left  in  the  mouth 
Of  too  much  sleep,  or  too  much  happiness, 
And  sigh,  and  wish  that  I  might  dream  again. 


SUNDOWN 

A  SEA  of  splendor  in  the  West, 

Purple,  and  pearl,  and  gold, 
With  milk-white  ships  of  cloud,  whose  sails 

Slowly  the  winds  unfold. 

Brown  cirrus-bars,  like  ribbed  beach  sand, 

Cross  the  blue  upper  dome ; 
And  nearer  flecks  of  feathery  white 

Blow  over  them  like  foam. 

But  when  that  transient  glory  dies 

Into  the  twilight  gray, 
And  leaves  me  on  the  beach  alone 

Beside  the  glimmering  bay  ; 

And  when  I  know  that,  late  or  soon, 

Love's  glory  finds  a  grave, 
And  hearts  that  danced  like  dancing  foam 

Break  like  the  breaking  wave ; 

A  little  dreary,  homeless  thought 

Creeps  sadly  over  me, 
Like  the  shadow  of  a  lonely  cloud 

Moving  along  the  sea. 


THE  ARCH 

JUST  where  the  street  of  the  village  ends, 

Over  the  road  an  oak-tree  tall, 
Curving  in  more  than  a  crescent,  bends 

With  an  arch  like  the  gate  of  a  Moorish  wall. 

Over  across  the  river  there, 

Looking  under  the  arch,  one  sees 
The  sunshine  slant  through  the  distant  air, 

And  burn  on  the  cliff  and  the  tufted  trees. 

Each  day,  hurrying  through  the  town, 

I  stop  an  instant,  early  or  late, 
As  I  cross  the  street,  and  glancing  down 

I  catch  a  glimpse  through  the  Moorish  gate. 

Only  a  moment  there  I  stand, 

But  I  look  through  that  loop  in  the  dusty  air, 
Into  a  far-off  fairyland, 

Where  all  seems  calm,  and  kind,  and  fair. 

So  sometimes  at  the  end  of  a  thought, 

Where  with  a  vexing  doubt  we  've  striven, 

A  sudden,  sunny  glimpse  is  caught 

Of  an  open  arch,  and  a  peaceful  heaven. 


APRIL    IN   OAKLAND 

WAS  there  last  night  a  snowstorm  ? 

So  thick  the  orchards  stand, 
With  drift  on  drift  of  blossom-flakes 

Whitening  all  the  land. 

Or  have  the  waves  of  life  that  swelled 
The  green  buds,  day  by  day, 

Broken  at  once  in  clinging  foam 
And  scattered  odor-spray  ? 

The  winds  come  drowsy  with  the  breath 

Of  cherry  and  of  pear, 
Sighing  their  perfume-laden  wings 

No  more  of  sweet  can  bear. 

Over  the  garden-gateway 

That  parts  the  tufted  hedge, 

Rimming  the  idly  twinkling  bay, 
Sleeps  the  blue  mountains'  edge. 

Yon  fleece  of  clouds  in  heaven, 

So  delicate  and  fair, 
Seems  a  whole  league  of  orchard-bloom 

Sailing  along  the  air. 


ii2  APRIL    IN    OAKLAND 

Oh,  loveliness  of  nature  ! 

Oh,  sordid  minds  of  men  ! 
Without,  a  world  of  bloom  and  balm  — 

A  sour,  sad  soul  within. 

O  winds  that  sweep  the  orchard 
With  Orient  spices  sweet, 

Why  bring  ye  with  that  desolate  sound 
The  dead  leaves  to  my  feet  ? 

Ah,  sweeter  were  the  fragrance 
That  I  to-day  have  found, 

If  last  year's  crumbled  leaves  of  love 
Were  buried  under  ground  ; 

And  fairer  were  the  shadowed  troops 
That  fleck  the  distant  hill, 

If  shades  of  clouds  that  will  not  pass 
Dimmed  not  my  memory  still. 

Better  than  all  the  beauty 

Which  cloud  or  blossom  shows 

Is  the  blue  sky  that  arches  all 
With  measureless  repose. 

And  better  than  the  bright  blue  sky, 

To  know  that  far  away 
Sweep  all  the  silent  host  of  stars 

Behind  the  veil  of  day. 


APRIL    IN    OAKLAND  113 

And  best  to  feel  that  there  and  here, 

About  us  and  above, 
Move  on  the  purposes  of  God 

In  justice  and  in  love. 


TO    CHILD    SARA 

I  LOOKED  in  a  dew-drop's  heart  to-day 

As  it  clung  on  a  leaf  of  clover, 
Holding  a  sparkle  of  starry  light, 
Like  a  liquid  drop  of  opal  bright 

With  diamond  dusted  over. 
» 

In  that  least  globe  of  quivering  dew 

The  sunny  scene  around, 
Diminished  to  a  grass-blade's  width  — 
Scarcely  a  fairy's  finger-breadth 

All  imaged  there  I  found  : 

The  spreading  oak,  the  fir's  soft  fringe, 

The  grain-field's  brightening  green, 
The  linnet  that  flew  fluttering  by, 
And,  over  all,  the  dear  blue  sky, 
The  bending  boughs  between  : 

And  all  the  night,  as  from  its  nest 

It  gazes  up  afar, 

Its  bosom  holds  the  heavens  deep, 
Whose  constellations  o'er  it  sweep, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 


TO    CHILD    SARA  115 

Child,  is  that  drop  of  dew  —  your  soul  — 

With  mirrored  heaven  as  bright  ? 
(Forgive  me  that  I  ask  of  you, 
Whose  heart  I  know  is  pure  and  true 
And  stainless  as  the  light)  : 

The  sunshine,  and  the  starlight  too,  — 

Fair  hope,  and  faith  as  fair, 
Courage,  and  patience,  silent  power, 
And  wisdom  for  each  troubled  hour, — 

Tell  me,  are  they  all  there  ? 

Your  quiet  grace  and  kindly  words 

Have  influence  sweet  and  strong; 
Your  hand  and  voice  can  calm  the  brain 
And  cheer  the  heavy  hearts  of  men 
With  music  and  with  song : 

Let  the  soul  answer  —  can  it  give 

That  music  clear  and  calm  — 
The  rhythmic  years,  the  holier  aim, 
The  scorn  of  pleasure,  fortune,  fame  — 

To  make  our  life  a  psalm  ? 

All  round  the  house,  your  birthday  morn 

The  budded  orchards  stand  ; 
And  we  can  watch  from  every  room 
The  trees  all  blushing  into  bloom  — 

Blossoms  on  every  hand : 


n6  TO    CHILD    SARA 

So  may  your  Life  be,  many  a  year, 

A  fair  and  goodly  tree  j 
Not  blossoming  only,  but  sublime 
With  fruit,  so  hastening  the  time 
When  Earth  shall  Eden  be. 


EASTERN   WINTER 

COLD  —  cold  —  the  very  sun  looks  cold, 
With  those  thin  rays  of  chilly  gold 
Laid  on  that  gap  of  bluish  sky 
That  glazes  like  a  dying  eye. 

The  naked  trees  are  shivering, 
Each  cramped  and  bare  branch  quivering, 
Cutting  the  bleak  wind  into  blades, 
Whose  edge  to  brain  and  bone  invades. 

That  hard  ground  seems  to  ache,  all  day, 

Even  for  a  sheet  of  snow,  to  lay 

Upon  its  icy  feet  and  knees, 

Stretched  stiffly  there  to  freeze  and  freeze. 

And  yon  shrunk  mortal  —  what 's  within 
That  nipped  and  winter-shriveled  skin  ? 
The  pinched  face  drawn  in  peevish  lines, 
The  voice  that  through  his  blue  lips  whines, 

The  frost  has  got  within,  you  see,  — 
Left  but  a  selfish  me  and  me : 
The  heart  is  chilled,  its  nerves  are  numb, 
And  love  has  long  been  frozen  dumb. 


u8  EASTERN    WINTER 

Ah,  give  me  back  the  clime  I  know, 

Where  all  the  year  geraniums  blow, 

And  hyacinth-buds  bloom  white  for  snow ; 

Where  hearts  beat  warm  with  life's  delight, 
Through  radiant  winter's  sunshine  bright, 
And  summer's  starry  deeps  of  night ; 

Where  man  may  let  earth's  beauty  thaw 
The  wintry  creed  which  Calvin  saw, 
That  God  is  only  Power  and  Law  ; 

And  out  of  Nature's  Bible  prove, 

That  here  below  as  there  above 

Our  Maker  —  Father  —  God  —  is  Love. 


SLEEPING 

HUSHED  within  her  quiet  bed 
She  is  lying  all  the  night, 
In  her  pallid  robes  of  white, 
Eyelids  on  the  pure  eyes  pressed, 
Soft  hands  folded  on  the  breast,— 

And  you  thought  I  meant  it — dead? 

Nay  !   I  smile  at  your  shocked  face: 
In  the  morning  she  will  wake, 
Turn  her  dreams  to  sport,  and  make 
All  the  household  glad  and  gay, 
Yet  for  many  a  merry  day, 

With  her  beauty  and  her  grace. 

But  some  summer  't  will  be  said, — 
"  She  is  lying  all  the  night, 
In  her  pallid  robes  of  white, 
Eyelids  on  the  tired  eyes  pressed, 
Hands  that  cross  upon  the  breast :  " 

We  shall  understand  it  —  dead  ! 

Yet 't  will  only  be  a  sleep : 

When,  with  songs  and  dewy  light, 
Morning  blossoms  out  of  night, 
She  will  open  her  blue  eyes 
'Neath  the  palms  of  Paradise, 

While  we  foolish  ones  shall  weep. 


STARLIGHT 

THEY  think  me  daft,  who  nightly  meet 
My  face  turned  starward,  while  my  feet 
Stumble  along  the  unseen  street ; 

But  should  man's  thoughts  have  only  room 
For  Earth,  his  cradle  and  his  tomb, 
Not  for  his  Temple's  grander  gloom  ? 

And  must  the  prisoner  all  his  days 
Learn  but  his  dungeon's  narrow  ways 
And  never  through  its  grating  gaze  ? 

Then  let  me  linger  in  your  sight, 

My  only  amaranths  !   blossoming  bright 

As  over  Eden's  cloudless  night. 

The  same  vast  belt,  and  square,  and  crown, 
That  on  the  Deluge  glittered  down, 
And  lit  the  roofs  of  Bethlehem  town  ! 

Ye  make  me  one  with  all  my  race, 
A  victor  over  time  and  space, 
Till  all  the  path  of  men  I  pace. 


STARLIGHT  121 

Far-speeding  backward  in  my  brain 
We  build  the  Pyramids  again, 
And  Babel  rises  from  the  plain  ; 

And  climbing  upward  on  your  beams 
I  peer  within  the  Patriarchs'  dreams, 
Till  the  deep  sky  with  angels  teems. 

My  Comforters  !  —  Yea,  why  not  mine  ? 
The  power  that  kindled  you  doth  shine, 
In  man,  a  mastery  divine; 

That  Love  which  throbs  in  every  star, 
And  quickens  all  the  worlds  afar, 
Beats  warmer  where  his  children  are. 

The  shadow  of  the  wings  of  Death 
Broods  over  us ;  we  feel  his  breath : 
"  Resurgam  "  still  the  spirit  saith. 

These  tired  feet,  this  weary  brain, 
Blotted  with  many  a  mortal  stain, 
May  crumble  earthward  —  not  in  vain. 

With  swifter  feet  that  shall  not  tire, 
Eyes  that  shall  fail  not  at  your  fire 
Nearer  your  splendors  I  aspire. 


A   DEAD    BIRD    IN    WINTER 

THE  cold,  hard  sky  and  hidden  sun, 
The  stiffened  trees  that  shiver  so, 

With  bare  twigs  naked  every  one 

To  these  harsh  winds  that  freeze  the  snow, 

It  was  a  bitter  place  to  die, 

Poor  birdie  !    Was  it  easier,  then, 

On  such  a  world  to  shut  thine  eye, 
And  sleep  away  from  life,  than  when 

The  apple-blossoms  tint  the  air, 
And,  twittering  in  the  sunny  trees, 

Thy  fellow-songsters  flit  and  pair, 

Breasting  the  warm,  caressing  breeze  ? 

Nay,  it  were  easiest,  I  feel, 

Though  't  were  a  brighter  Earth  to  lose, 
To  let  the  summer  shadows  steal 

About  thee,  bringing  their  repose ; 

When  the  noon  hush  was  on  the  air, 

And  on  the  flowers  the  warm  sun  shined, 

And  Earth  seemed  all  so  sweet  and  fair, 
That  He  who  made  it  must  be  kind. 


A    DEAD    BIRD    IN   WINTER        123 

So  I,  too,  could  not  bear  to  go 

From  Life  in  this  unfriendly  clime, 
To  lie  beneath  the  crusted  snow, 

When  the  dead  grass  stands  stiff  with  rime ; 

But  under  those  blue  skies  of  home, 

Far  easier  were  it  to  lie  down 
Where  the  perpetual  violets  bloom 

And  the  rich  moss  grows  never  brown  ; 

Where  linnets  never  cease  to  build 

Their  nests,  in  boughs  that  always  wave 

To  odorous  airs,  with  blessing  filled 

From  nestled  blossoms  round  my  grave. 


SPRING  TWILIGHT 

SINGING  in  the  rain,  robin  ? 

Rippling  out  so  fast 
All  thy  flute-like  notes,  as  if 

This  singing  were  thy  last ! 

After  sundown,  too,  robin  ? 

Though  the  fields  are  dim, 
And  the  trees  grow  dark  and  still, 

Dripping  from  leaf  and  limb. 

JT  is  heart-broken  music,  — 
That  sweet,  faltering  strain,  — 

Like  a  mingled  memory, 
Half  ecstasy,  half  pain. 

Surely  thus  to  sing,  robin, 
Thou  must  have  in  sight 

Beautiful  skies  behind  the  shower, 
And  dawn  beyond  the  night. 

Would  thy  faith  were  mine,  robin  ! 

Then,  though  night  were  long, 
All  its  silent  hours  should  melt 

Their  sorrow  into'  song. 


EVENING 

THE  Sun  is  gone :  those  glorious  chariot-wheels 
Have  sunk  their  broadening  spokes  of  flame,  and  left 
Thin  rosy  films  wimpled  across  the  West, 
Whose  last  faint  tints  melt  slowly  in  the  blue, 
As  the  last  trembling  cadence  of  a  song 
Fades  into  silence  sweeter  than  all  sound. 

Now  the  first  stars  begin  to  tremble  forth 
Like  the  first  instruments  of  an  orchestra 
Touched  softly,  one  by  one.  —  There  in  the  East 
Kindles  the  glory  of  moonrise :   how  its  waves 
Break  in  a  surf  of  silver  on  the  clouds  !  - 
White,  motionless  clouds,  like  soft  and  snowy  wings 
Which  the  great  Earth  spreads,  sailing  round  the  Sun. 

O  silent  stars  !   that  over  ages  past 
Have  shone  serenely  as  ye  shine  to-night, 
Unseal,  unseal  the  secret  that  ye  keep  ! 
Is  it  not  time  to  tell  us  why  we  live  ? 
Through  all  these  shadowy  corridors  of  years 
(Like  some  gray  Priest,  who  through  the  Mysteries 
Led  the  blindfolded  Neophyte  in  fear), 
Time  leads  us  blindly  onward,  till  in  wrath 
Tired  Life  would  seize  and  throttle  its  stern  guide, 


126  EVENING 

And  force  him  tell  us  whither  and  how  long. 

But  Time  gives  back  no  answer  —  only  points 

With  motionless  finger  to  eternity, 

Which  deepens  over  us,  as  that  deep  sky 

Darkens  above  me  :   only  its  vestibule 

Glimmers  with  scattered  stars ;  and  down  the  West 

A  silent  meteor  slowly  slides  afar, 

As  though,  pacing  the  garden-walks  of  heaven, 

Some  musing  seraph  had  let  fall  a  flower. 


THE   ORGAN 

IT  is  no  harmony  of  human  making, 

Though  men  have  built  those  pipes  of  burnished 

gold; 
Their  music,  out  of  Nature's  heart  awaking, 

Forever  new,  forever  is  of  old. 

Man  makes  not  —  only  finds  —  all  earthly  beauty, 
Catching  a  thread  of  sunshine  here  and  there, 

Some  shining  pebble  in  the  path  of  duty, 
Some  echo  of  the  songs  that  flood  the  air. 

That  prelude  is  a  wind  among  the  willows, 
Rising  until  it  meets  the  torrent's  roar  ; 

Now  a  wild  ocean,  beating  his  great  billows 
Among  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  shore. 

It  is  the  voice  of  some  vast  people,  pleading 

For  justice  from  an  ancient  shame  and  wrong,— 

The  tramp  of  God's  avenging  armies,  treading 
With  shouted  thunders  of  triumphant  song. 

O  soul,  that  sittest  chanting  dreary  dirges, 
Couldst  thou  but  rise  on  some  divine  desire, 


128  THE    ORGAN 

As  those  deep  chords  upon  their  swelling  surges 
Bear  up  the  wavering  voices  of  the  choir ! 

But  ever  lurking  in  the  heart,  there  lingers 
The  trouble  of  a  false  and  jarring  tone, 

As  some  great  Organ  which  unskillful  ringers 
Vex  into  discords  when  the  Master's  gone. 


LOST    LOVE 

BURY  it,  and  sift 

Dust  upon  its  light,  — 
Death  must  not  be  left, 

To  offend  the  sight. 

Cover  the  old  love  — 

Weep  not  on  the  mound  — - 
Grass  shall  grow  above, 

Lilies  spring  around. 

Can  we  fight  the  law, 

Can  our  natures  change  — 

Half-way  through  withdraw  — 
Other  lives  exchange  ? 

You  and  I  must  do 

As  the  world  has  done, 

There  is  nothing  new 
Underneath  the  sun. 

Fill  the  grave  up  full  — 
Put  the  dead  love  by  — 

Not  that  men  are  dull, 
Not  that  women  lie,  — 


130  LOST    LOVE 

But  't  is  well  and  right  — 
Safest,  you  will  find  — 

That  the  Out  of  Sight 
Should  be  Out  of  Mind 


A    MEMORY 

UPON  the  barren,  lonely  hill 

We  sat  to  watch  the  sinking  sun ; 
Below,  the  land  grew  dim  and  still, 

Whose  evening  shadow  had  begun. 
Her  finger  parted  the  shut  book,— 

At  "  Aylmer's  Field  "  the  leaf  was  turned, 
Round  her  meek  head  and  sainted  look 

The  sunset  like  a  halo  burned. 
She  knew  not  that  I  watched  her  face  — 

Her  spirit  through  her  eyes  was  gone 
To  some  far-off  and  Sabbath  place, 

And  left  me  gazing  there  alone. 
Could  she  have  known,  that  quiet  hour, 

What  ghosts  her  presence  raised  in  me, 
What  graves  were  opened  by  the  power 

Of  that  unconscious  witchery, 
She  would  not  thus  have  sat  and  seen 

The  bird  that  balanced  far  below 
On  the  blue  air,  and  watched  the  sheen 

Along  his  broad  wings  come  and  go. 
For  was  she  not  another's  bride  ? 

And  I  — *-  what  right  had  I  to  feast 
Upon  those  eyes  in  revery  wide, 

With  hungering  gaze  like  famished  beast  ? 


132  A    MEMORY 

Was  it  before  my  fate  I  knelt  — 

The  human  fate,  the  mighty  law  — 
To  hunger  for  the  heart  I  felt, 

And  love  the  lovely  face  I  saw  ? 
Or  was  it  only  that  the  brow, 

Or  some  sweet  trick  of  hand  or  tone, 
Brought  from  the  Past  to  haunt  me  now 

Her  ghost  whose  love  was  mine  alone  ? 
I  know  not ;  but  we  went  to  rest 

That  eve,  from  songs  that  haunt  me  still, 
And  all  night  long,  in  visions  blest, 

I  walked  with  angels  on  the  hill. 


LIFE 

FORENOON  and  afternoon  and  night,  —  Forenoon, 
And  afternoon,  and  night,  —  Forenoon,  and  —  what ! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.    No  more  ? 
Yea,  that  is  Life :   make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 


FERTILITY 

CLEAR  water  on  smooth  rock 

Could  give  no  foothold  for  a  single  flower, 

Or  slenderest  shaft  of  grain  : 

The  stone  must  crumble  under  storm  and  rain, 

The  forests  crash  beneath  the  whirlwind's  power, 

And  broken  boughs  from  many  a  tempest-shock, 

And  fallen  leaves  of  many  a  wintry  hour, 

Must  mingle  in  the  mould, 

Before  the  harvest  whitens  on  the  plain, 

Bearing  an  hundred-fold. 

Patience,  O  weary  heart  ! 

Let  all  thy  sparkling  hours  depart, 

And  all  thy  hopes  be  withered  with  the  frost, 

And  every  effort  tempest-tost  — 

So,  when  all  life's  green  leaves 

Are  fallen,  and  mouldered  underneath  the  sod, 

Thou  shalt  go  not  too  lightly  to  thy  God, 

But  heavy  with  full  sheaves. 


THREE   SONGS 

SING  me,  thou  Singer,  a  song  of  gold  ! 

Said  a  careworn  man  to  me  : 
So  I  sang  of  the  golden  summer  days, 
And  the  sad,  sweet  autumn's  yellow  haze, 
Till  his  heart  grew  soft,  and  his  mellowed  gaze 

Was  a  kindly  sight  to  see. 

Sing  me,  dear  Singer,  a  song  of  love ! 

A  fair  girl  asked  of  me : 
Then  I  sang  of  a  love  that  clasps  the  Race, 
Gives  all,  asks  naught  —  till  her  kindled  face 
Was  radiant  with  the  starry  grace 

Of  blessed  Charity. 

Sing  me,  O  Singer,  a  song  of  life  ! 

Cried  an  eager  youth  to  me  : 
And  I  sang  of  the  life  without  alloy, 
Beyond  our  years,  till  the  heart  of  the  boy 
Caught  the  golden  beauty,  and  love,  and  joy 

Of  the  great  Eternity. 


THE    WORLD'S    SECRET 

I  KNOW  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 

And  beauty  in  the  leaves,  and  moss,  and  grass  ; 
I  love  the  birds'  small  voices  every  one, 

And  all  the  hours  have  kindness  as  they  pass ; 

But  still  the  heart1  can  apprehend 

A  deeper  purport  than  the  brain  may  know  : 
I  see  it  at  the  dying  daylight's  end, 

And  hear  it  when  the  winds  begin  to  blow. 

It  strives  to  speak  from  all  the  world, 

Out  of  dumb  earth,  and  moaning  ocean-tides ; 

And  brooding  Night,  beneath  her  pinions  furled, 
Some  message  writ  in  starry  cipher  hides. 

Must  I  go  seeking  everywhere 

The  meanings  that  behind  our  objects  be  — 
A  depth  serener  in  the  azure  air, 

A  something  more  than  peace  upon  the  sea  ? 

Not  one  least  deed  one  soul  to  bless  ? 

Unto  the  stern-eyed  Future  shall  I  bear 
Only  the  sense  of  pain  without  redress, 

Self-sickness,  and  a  dull  and  stale  despair  ? 


THE    WORLD'S   SECRET  137 

Nay,  let  me  shape,  in  patience  slow, 

My  years,  like  the  Holy  Child  his  bird  of  clay, 
Till  suddenly  the  clod  its  Master  know, 

And  thrill  with  life,  and  soar  with  songs  away. 


SEEMING    AND    BEING 

* 
THE  brave  old  motto,  "  Seem  not  —  only  be,"  — 

Would  it  were  set  ablaze  against  the  sky 
In  golden  letters,  where  the  world  must  read  ! 
What  is  there  done  for  the  honest  doing's  sake, 
In  these  poor  times  gone  mad  with  self-parade  ? 
There  's  not  a  picture  of  the  Cross  but  bears 
The  painter's  name  as  prominent  as  the  Christ's  : 
There  's  not  a  scene,  of  such  peculiar  grace 
That  one  would  fain  forget  men's  meanness  there, 
But  from  the  rocks  some  rascal  clothier's  name 
Stares  in  great  capitals,  till  one  could  wish 
The  knave  hung  from  his  signboard,  for  a  sign  : 
There's  not  a  graveyard  in  the  land,  but  lo  ! 
On  the  white  tablets  of  the  dead,  full  cut 
Below  their  sacred  names,  his  shameless  name 
Who  carved  the  marble  I 

Is  it  not  pitiful  ? 

We  are  all  actors,  and  all  audience. 
Yea,  such  a  dreary  farce  we  make  our  lives, 
That  something  is  expected  of  a  man 
Upon  his  deathbed  :  u  Hark  ye  now,  good  friends, 
These  fine  last  words,  this  notable  bravery,  —  see  !  " 
So  even  the  grim  cross-bones  of  awful  Death 


SEEMING   AND    BEING  139 

Must  take  an  attitude,  and  the  skull  smirk 
For  a  last  picture. 

Here  is  a  nation,  too 

(God  help  it !),  that  dare  scarcely  act  its  mind, 
But  walks  the  world's  stage,  quaking  with  the  thought, 
"  What  will  great  England  think  of  me  for  this  ?  " 

The  poet  scoffs  at  fame,  then  sets  himself, 
Full-titled,  with  a  portrait  at  the  front ; 
Each  beautiful  impatient  soul  who  left 
The  world  he  scorned,  still  lingered  near  enough 
To  listen,  not  displeased,  and  hear  the  world 
Admiringly  relate  how  he  had  scorned  it ; 
Even  our  great  doubting  Thomas,  in  young  days 
When  he  praised  silence,  did  it  with  loud  speech, 
That  ever  too  distinctly  told,  ct  'T  is  I, 
Thomas,  so  noisily  abuse  your  noise  !  " 

Is  it  not  enough  for  the  trumpet  that  the  god 
Has  chosen  it  to  sound  his  message  through  ? 
Must  the  brass  blare  in  its  own  petty  praise  ? 
And  can  we  never  do  the  right,  and  do  it 
As  though  we  were  alone  upon  the  earth, 
And  the  gods  blind  ? 


WEATHER-BOUND 

THOU  pitiless,  false  sea  ! 
How,  like  a  woman,  thou  wilt  softly  sigh 

With  heaving  breast  where  bubble-jewels  shine, 
Or,  beckoning,  toss  thy  foam-white  arms  on  high, 

And  laugh  with  those  blue  sunny  eyes  of  thine  ! 

Ah,  crouching,  creeping  sea  ! 
Thou  tiger-cat !   how,  while  the  winds  make  pause 

To  stroke  thy  long  smooth  back  in  quiet  play, 
Thou  canst  unsheathe  thy  velvet-hidden  claws 

And  spring  all  unawares  upon  thy  prey  ! 

Thou  treacherous,  cruel  sea  ! 
How  thou  wilt  show  thy  glittering  smile  at  night, 

Hiding  thy  fangs,  hushing  thy  fiendish  cry, 
And  rise  all  gentle  sport  from  licking  white 

The  bones  of  men  that  underneath  thee  lie  ! 

O  bitter,  bitter  sea  ! 
Didst  thou  not  fawn  about  my  naked  feet, 

When  I  stood  with  thee  on  the  beach,  and  say 
That  thou  wouldst  bear  me  swiftly  home  to  meet 

My  darling,  waiting  there  in  vain  to-day  ? 


WEATHER-BOUND  141 

Yea,  thou  most  mighty  sea  ! 
Keep  then  that  promise  murmured  on  the  shore ; 

Put  thy  great  shoulders  to  our  loitering  keel, 
Not  as  in  rage  and  wrath  thou  hast  before  — 

Let  the  good  ship  thy  help  gigantic  feel. 

Thou  answerest  me,  O  sea  ! 
Lifting  in  silence,  o'er  the  waters  stilled, 

The  shattered  fragment  of  a  rainbow  fair, 
A  mocking  promise,  ne'er  to  be  fulfilled, 

Based  on  the  waves  and  broken  in  mid-air. 


SUMMER   AFTERNOON 

FAR  in  hollow  mountain  canons 
Brood  with  purple-folded  pinions, 
Flocks  of  drowsy  distance-colors  on  their  nests ; 
And  the  bare  round  slopes  for  forests 
Have  cloud-shadows,  floating  forests, 
On  their  breasts. 

Winds  are  wakening  and  dying, 
Questions  low  with  low  replying, 
Through   the   oak   a  hushed   and   trembling  whisper 

goes  : 

Faint  and  rich  the  air  with  odors, 
Hyacinth  and  spicy  odors 
Of  the  rose. 

Even  the  flowerless  acacia 
Is  one  flower  —  such  slender  stature, 
With  its  latticed  leaves  a-tremble  in  the  sun  : 
They  have  shower-drops  for  blossoms, 
Quivering  globes  of  diamond  blossoms, 
Every  one. 

In  the  blue  of  heaven  holy 
Clouds  go  floating,  floating  slowly, 


SUMMER    AFTERNOON  143 

Pure  in  snowy  robe  and  sunny  silver  crown  ; 
And  they  seem  like  gentle  angels  — 
Leisure-full  and  loitering  angels, 
Looking  down. 

Half  the  birds  are  wild  with  singing, 
And  the  rest  with  rhythmic  winging 
Sing  in  melody  of  motion  to  the  sight  j 
Every  little  sparrow  twitters, 
Cheerily  chirps,  and  cheeps,  and  twitters 
His  delight. 

Sad  at  heart  amid  the  splendor, 
Dull  to  all  the  radiance  tender, 
What  can  I  for  such  a  world  give  back  again  ? 
Could  I  only  hint  the  beauty  - 
Some  least  shadow  of  the  beauty, 
Unto  men  ! 


A    POET'S   APOLOGY 

TRUTH  cut  on  high  in  tablets  of  hewn  stone, 
Or  on  great  columns  gorgeously  adorned, 

Perchance  were  left  alone, 
Passed  by  and  scorned ; 

But  Truth  enchased  upon  a  jewel  rare, 

A  man  would  keep,  and  next  his  bosom  wear. 

So,  many  an  hour,  I  sit  and  carve  my  gems  — 
Ten  spoiled,  for  one  in  purer  beauty  set : 

Not  for  kings'  diadems  — 
Some  amulet 

That  may  be  worn  o'er  hearts  that  toil  and  plod, — 

Though  but  one  pearl  that  bears  the  name  of  God. 


A    PRAYER 

O  GOD,  our  Father,  if  we  had  but  truth ! 

Lost  truth  —  which  thou  perchance 
Didst  let  man  lose,  lest  all  his  wayward  youth 

He  waste  in  song  and  dance ; 
That  he  might  gain,  in  searching,  mightier  powers 
For  manlier  use  in  those  foreshadowed  hours. 

If,  blindly  groping,  he  shall  oft  mistake, 

And  follow  twinkling  motes 
Thinking  them  stars,  and  the  one  voice  forsake 

Of  Wisdom  for  the  notes 
Which  mocking  Beauty  utters  here  and  there, 
Thou  surely  wilt  forgive  him,  and  forbear  ! 

Oh,  love  us,  for  we  love  thee,  Maker  —  God ! 

And  would  creep  near  thy  hand, 
And  call  thee  "  Father,  Father,"  from  the  sod 

Where  by  our  graves  we  stand, 
And  pray  to  touch,  fearless  of  scorn  or  blame, 
Thy  garment's  hem,  which  Truth  and  Good  we  name. 


A    DAILY    MIRACLE 

JUNE'S  sunshine  on  the  broad  porch  shines 
Through  tangled  curtains  of  crossing  vines ; 
The  restless  dancing  of  the  leaves 
Dusky  webs  of  shadow  weaves, 
That  wander  on  the  oaken  floor, 
Or  cross  the  threshold  of  the  door. 
Scattered  where'er  their  mazes  run 
Lie  little  phantoms  of  the  sun  : 
Whatever  chink  the  sunbeam  found, 
Crooked  or  narrow,  on  the  ground 
The  shadowy  image  still  is  round. 

So  the  image  of  God  in  the  heart  of  a  man, 
Which  truth  makes,  rifting  as  it  can 
Through  the  narrow  crooked  ways 
Of  our  restless  deeds  and  days, 
Still  is  His  image — bright  or  dim  — 
And  scorning  it  is  scorning  Him. 


INFLUENCES 

FROM  the  scarlet  sea  of  sunset, 

Tossing  up  its  waves  of  fire 
To  a  floating  spray  of  splendor, 

Kindles  through  me  mad  desire 

Now  —  now  —  now  to  call  her  mine! 

From  the  ashen  gray  of  twilight 
Musings  dark  as  shadows  linger, 

Slowly  creeping,  leave  me  weeping  — 
While  in  silence  round  my  finger 
That  long  glossy  lock  I  twine. 

From  the  holy  hush  of  starlight 

Sinks  a  peace  upon  my  spirit, 
And  a  voice  of  hope  and  patience  — 

All  the  quiet  night  I  hear  it  — 

Whispers,  "  Wait,  for  she  is  thine  !  " 


POEMS    WRITTEN    BETWEEN 

1867    AND    1872 

A    BIRD'S   SONG 

THE  shadow  of  a  bird 

On  the  shadow  of  a  bough  ; 
Sweet  and  clear  his  song  is  heard,' 

"Seek  me  now  —  I  seek  thee  now." 
The  bird  swings  out  of  reach  in  the  swaying  tree, 
But  his  shadow  on  the  garden  walk  below  belongs  to 
me. 

The  phantom  of  my  Love 

False  dreams  with  hope  doth  fill, 
Softly  singing  far  above, 

"  Love  me  still  —  I  love  thee  still !  " 
The  cruel  vision  hovers  at  my  sad  heart's  door, 
But  the  soul-love  is  soaring  out  of  reach  forevermore. 


THE   NEWS-GIRL 

A  TINY,  blue-eyed,  elfin  lass 
Meets  me  upon  the  street  I  pass 

In  going  to  the  ferry ; 
Barefooted,  scantly  clothed,  and  thin, 
With  little  weazen  cheeks  and  chin, 

Yet  always  chirk  and  merry  : 

Ever  merry,  however  pale, 
I  always  hear  her,  as  I  draw  near  her : 

«  'Ere  's  the  Mail,  sir !  —  Mail  ?  —  Mail  ?  ; 

With  that  same  piping  little  tune, 
She  waits  there  every  afternoon, 

Selling  her  bunch  of  papers ; 
She  scarcely  looks  aside  to  see 
What 's  passing  by,  of  grief  or  glee  — 

No  childish  tricks  or  capers ; 

Her  pattering  bare  feet  never  fail 
To  run  and  meet  me,  and  chirping  greet  me, 

"  'Ere  's  the  Mail,  sir  !  —  Mail  ?  —  Mail  ? 

Her  dingy  frock  is  scant  and  torn ; 
Her  old,  old  face  looks  wan  and  worn, 

Yet  always  sweet  and  sunny  ; 
Week  in,  week  out,  she  is  the  same  — 


150  THE    NEWS-GIRL  . 

I  asked  her  once  what  was  her  name, 

And,  jingling  all  her  money, 

Holding  a  paper  up  for  sale, 
The  little  midget  answered,  "  Bridget ! 

Want  the  Mail,  sir  ?  —  Mail  ?  —  Mail  ? " 

I  wonder  where  she  goes  at  night, 

And  in  what  nook  the  poor  young  sprite 

Finds  room  for  rest  and  sleeping ; 
I  wonder  if  her  little  bones 
Go  home  to  blows  and  cuffs,  and  tones 

That  roughly  set  her  weeping  — 

When,  rainy  days,  the  pennies  fail 
And  few  are  buying,  for  all  her  crying, 

«  'Ere 's  the  Mail,  sir  !  —  Mail  ?  —  Mail  ?  " 

O  rich  and  happy  people  !  you 

Whose  ways  are  smooth,  and  woes  are  few, 

Whose  life  brims  o'er  with  blisses, 
Pity  the  little  patient  face, 
That  never  knows  the  tender  grace 

Of  kind  caress  or  kisses. 

For  you,  the  blessings  never  fail ; 
For  her  't  is  only  to  wait  there  lonely 

And  cry,  «  The  Mail,  sir  ?  —  Mail  ?  —Mail  ? " 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  HEART 

EVERY  house  with  its  garret, 
Lumbered  with  rubbish  and  relics, — 
Spinning-wheels  leaning  in  corners, 
Chests  under  spider-webbed  rafters, 
Brittle  and  yellow  old  letters, 
Grandfather's  things  and  grandmother's. 
There  overhead,  at  the  midnight, 
Noises  of  creaking  and  stepping 
Startle  the  hush  of  the  chambers  — 
Ghost^  on  their  tiptoes  repassing. 

Every  house  with  its  garden ; 
Some  little  plot  —  a  half-acre, 
Or  a  mere  strip  by  the  windows, 
Flower-beds  and  narrow  box-borders, 
Something  spicily  fragrant, 
Something  azure  and  golden. 
There  the  small  feet  of  the  sparrow 
Star  the  fresh  mould  round  the  roses ; 
And,  in  the  shadowy  moonlight, 
Wonderful  secrets  are  whispered. 

Every  heart  with  its  garret, 
Cumbered  with  relics  and  rubbish  — 
Wheels  that  are  silent  forever, 
Leaves  that  are  faded  and  broken, 


* 

152    THE    HOUSE   AND    THE    HEART 

Foolish  old  wishes  and  fancies, 
Cobwebs  of  doubt  and  suspicion  — 
Useless,  unbeautiful,  growing 
Year  by  year  thicker  and  faster  : 
Naught  but  a  fire  or  a  moving 
Ever  can  clear  it,  or  clean  it. 

Every  heart  with  its  garden ; 
Some  little  corner  kept  sacred, 
Fragrant  and  pleasant  with  blossoms  ; 
There  the  forget-me-nots  cluster, 
And  pure  love-violets,  hidden, 
Guessed  but  by  sweetness  all  round  them  ; 
Sorae  little  strip  in  the  sunshine, 
Cheery  and  warm,  for  above  it 
Rest  the  deep,  beautiful  heavens, 
Blue,  and  beyond,  and  forever. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE 

FATHER  in  Heaven  !   humbly  before  thee 
Kneeling  in  prayer  thy  children  appear ; 

We  in  our  weakness,  we  in  our  blindness, 
Thou  in  thy  wisdom,  hear  us,  oh  hear ! 

God  watching  o'er  us  sleeps  not  nor  slumbers, 
Faithful  night  watches  his  angels  keep. 

Through  all  the  darkness,  unto  the  dawning, 
To  his  beloved  he  giveth  sleep. 


A   TROPICAL    MORNING   AT   SEA 

SKY  in  its  lucent  splendor  lifted 

Higher  than  cloud  can  be ; 
Air  with  no  breath  of  earth  to  stain  it, 

Pure  on  the  perfect  sea. 

Crests  that  touch  and  tilt  each  other, 

Jostling  as  they  comb ; 
Delicate  crash  of  tinkling  water, 

Broken  in  pearling  foam. 

Flashings  —  or  is  it  the  pinewood's  whispers, 

Babble  of  brooks  unseen, 
Laughter  of  winds  when  they  find  the  blossoms, 

Brushing  aside  the  green  ? 

Waves  that  dip,  and  dash,  and  sparkle ; 

Foam-wreaths  slipping  by, 
Soft  as  a  snow  of  broken  roses 

Afloat  over  mirrored  sky. 

Off  to  the  East  the  steady  sun-track 

Golden  meshes  fill  — 
Webs  of  fire,  that  lace  and  tangle, 

Never  a  moment  still. 


A   TROPICAL    MORNING    AT    SEA  155 

Liquid  palms  but  clap  together, 

Fountains,  flower-like,  grow  — 
Limpid  bells  on  stems  of  silver  — 

Out  of  a  slope  of  snow. 

Sea-depths,  blue  as  the  blue  of  violets  — 

Blue  as  a  summer  sky, 
When  you  blink  at  its  arch  sprung  over 

Where  in  the  grass  you  lie. 

Dimly  an  orange  bit  of  rainbow 

Burns  where  the  low  west  clears, 
Broken  in  air,  like  a  passionate  promise 

Born  of  a  moment's  tears. 

Thinned  to  amber,  rimmed  with  silver, 

Clouds  in  the  distance  dwell, 
Clouds  that  are  cool,  for  all  their  color, 

Pure  as  a  rose-lipped  shell. 

Fleets  of  wool  in  the  upper  heavens 

Gossamer  wings  unfurl ; 
Sailing  so  high  they  seem  but  sleeping 

Over  yon  bar  of  pearl. 

What  would  the  great  world  lose,  I  wonder  — 

Would  it  be  missed  or  no  — 
If  we  stayed  in  the  opal  morning, 

Floating  forever  so  ? 


156  A    TROPICAL    MORNING    AT  SEA 

Swung  to  sleep  by  the  swaying  water, 

Only  to  dream  all  day  — 
Blow,  salt  wind  from  the  north  upstarting, 

Scatter  such  dreams  away  ! 


THE    PICTURE   OF   THE   WORLD 

ONE  morning  of  a  summer's  day, 
Upon  a  painter's  easel  lay 
The  picture  of  a  child  at  play  : 
A  form  of  laughing  life  and  grace, 
And  finished  all  except  the  place 
Left  empty  for  the  untouched  face. 
In  nodding  violets,  half  asleep, 
The  dancing  feet  were  ankle  deep  : 
One  rounded  arm  was  heaping  up 
With  clover-bloom  and  buttercup; 
The  other  tossed  a  blossom  high 
To  lure  a  wandering  butterfly. 

JT  was  easy  to  imagine  there 
In  that  round  frame  of  rippling  hair 
The  wanting  face,  all  bright  and  fair. 

A  sadder  artist  came  that  day, 
Looked  at  the  picture  where  it  lay, 
And,  sitting  in  the  painter's  place, 
He  painted  in  the  missing  face. 
From  his  own  heart  the  lines  he  took  — 
Lo  !   what  a  wan  and  woeful  look  ! 
Under  the  mocking  wreath  of  flowers, 
A  brow  worn  old  with  weary  hours  : 


158  THE    PICTURE    OF    THE    WORLD 

A  face,  once  seen,  one  still  must  see; 

Wise,  awful-eyed  solemnity, 

Lips  long  ago  too  tired  to  hide 

The  torture-lines  where  love  had  died ; 

The  look  of  a  despair  too  late, 

Too  dead  even  to  be  desperate  ; 

A  face  for  which  so  far  away 

The  struggle  and  the  protest  lay, 

No  memory  of  it  more  could  stay. 

Repulsed  and  reckless,  withered,  wild, 

It  stared  above  the  dancing  child. 

At  night  a  musing  poet  came 

And,  shuddering,  wrote  beneath  its  name. 


FOR   THE    GIFTS    OF   THE   SPIRIT 

SEND  down  thy  truth,  O  God  ! 
Too  long  the  shadows  frown  ; 
Too  long  the  darkened  way  we  've  trod  : 
Thy  truth,  O  Lord,  send  down  ! 

Send  down  thy  Spirit  free, 
Till  wilderness  and  town 
One  temple  for  thy  worship  be  : 
Thy  Spirit,  oh,  send  down  ! 

Send  down  thy  love,  thy  life, 
Our  lesser  lives  to  crown, 
And  cleanse  them  of  their  hate  and  strife : 
Thy  living  love  send  down  ! 

Send  down  thy  peace,  O  Lord ! 
Earth's  bitter  voices  drown 
In  one  deep  ocean  of  accord  : 

Thy  peace,  O  God,  send  down  ! 


THE   TWO    WAYS 

*T  WAS  Sabbath ;  and,  with  clang  on  clang, 

A  deafening  crash  of  church  bells  rang : 

The  day  for  penance  and  for  dole, 

For  sackcloth  and  an  ashen  soul  — 

So  had  my  childhood  learned  in  fear. 

And  forth  I  fared,  with  mood  severe, 

Clad  in  my  soberest  and  best, 

With  God's  own  world  to  keep  his  Rest. 

Through  orchard,  field,  and  wood  I  paced, 

Rasping  a  dry  thought,  solemn-faced. 

But  suddenly,  "  What  is  this  ?  "  I  thought ; 

"  Does  Earth  keep  Sabbath  as  she  ought  ?  " 

And  looking  round  about,  I  sought 

Some  comrade  with  me,  on  my  way, 

In  woeful  weeds  to  drape  the  day. 

—  All  nature  given  o'er  to  glee  ! 

No  psalms,  no  dirge,  no  minor  key  ; 

Each  grass-blade  nodding  to  the  rest, 

As  one  who  knows  a  hidden  jest ; 

The  thrush  still  hurrying,  loud  and  gay, 

To  find  the  lost  thread  of  his  lay ; 

And  chasing,  as  he  flies  along, 

The  fleeing  ripple  of  his  song, 

The  giddy  bluebird  flits  and  sings  — 


THE    TWO    WAYS  161 

A  bit  of  azure  sky  on  wings. 
Down  the  tree-trunks  the  shadows  trace 
The  tremble  of  their  dancing  lace  ; 
The  drifting  apple-blossoms  meek 
Brush  their  white  kisses  by  my  cheek  i 
The  bobolink  bubbles  o'er  with  glee 
In  tumbling,  headlong  melody  ; 
And  from  the  catbird's  hedge  is  sent 
His  quick,  low  chuckle  of  content. 

In  all  that  choral  symphony 
Of  flower,  and  bird,  and  waving  tree, 
And  happy  sky,  and  laughing  sun, 
I  found  in  holy  woe  not  one. 
—  Save  only,  through  the  churchyard  gloom 
Returning,  at  a  new-made  tomb 
A  bitter  mourner,  black-arrayed, 
Whom  fools  in  robes  had  faithless  made, 
Wept  the  lost  angel  he  had  wed 
As  though  her  soul — and  God  —  were  dead. 
Him  only ;   and,  as  evening  fell, 
An  owl,  that  sought  some  mate  as  well, 
Was  hooting  from  his  hollow  tree  — 
"  Will  none  be  doleful  now  with  me, 
Will  none  with  me  sad  penance  do  ?  " 
And  still  he  hooted  :  "  Who  ?  —  who,  who  ?  " 


THE    CLOCKS    OF    GNOSTER-TOWN 

IT  was  ever  so  many  years  ago, 

In  the  days  when  few  were  wise,  and  so 

All  thought  they  were  wiser  than  any,  you  know, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Mhundus  over  the  sea, 

The  town  of  Gnoster  used  to  be ; 

And  on  a  day  which  is  known  to  me 

Yunus,  a  small  man,  bald  and  brown, 

Came  to  dwell  in  this  Gnoster-town. 

'T  was  a  queer  little  village,  getting  full 
Already  when  Yunus  arrived ;  quite  dull, 
Or  a  little  stupid,  you  might  say, 
For  the  Now  was  ruled  by  the  Yesterday, 
And  highly  indecorous  it  was  deemed 
To  differ  from  what  one's  neighbors  seemed, 
So  the  average  ran  rather  low, 
Respectable  though,  as  majorities  go, 
And  the  social  tone  was  safe,  but  slow. 

All  over  Mhundus  time  was  law ; 
'T  was  the  promptest  kingdom  ever  you  saw, 
The  royal  rule  was,  "  Follow  the  sun ; 
Do  what  you  do  when  't  is  time  't  was  done. 
Do  with  your  might ;   seek  wisdom,  pursue  it ; 
Don't  wait  for  the  licensed  venders  to  do  it." 

So  Gnoster,  too,  went  in  for  time 


THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN    163 

In  its  feeble  way,  and  thought  the  chime 

Of  its  thousand  clocks  pealed  out  so  far 

That  they  kept  the  hour  for  the  furtherest  star ; 

And  many  a  citizen  demure 

Slept  sound  and  sweet,  in  the  thought  secure 

That  Caph  and  Phad  could  scarce  go  wrong 

While  Gnoster  clocks  beat  staunch  and  strong. 

A  thousand  clocks  !     But  for  setting  them  going 
The  village  a  terrible  tax  was  owing. 
Not  to  mention  the  cost  and  care 
Of  keeping  them  all  in  good  repair ; 
For  the  clock-tinker's  trade,  all  up  and  down, 
Was  one  of  the  very  best  in  town. 

There  was  the  clock  on  the  great  town-hall, 
Frowning  over  its  spike-toothed  wall. 
It  made  the  base  for  a  liberty-pole, 
Whose  crest  meant,  Everybody  had  stole 
Somebody's  cap,  and  gilded  it  so 
That  the  owner  never  his  own  could  know. 
Hugging  the  dial  with  bent  arm  bone 
Sat  a  figure  of  Justice,  asleep  in  stone; 
Her  broken  sword  had  been  crooked,  at  best ; 
In  one  of  her  scales  was  a  hornet's  nest ; 
And  the  bandage  over  her  stony  eyes, 
What  with  the  weather,  and  what  with  the  flies, 
A  pair  of  gold  spectacles  you  would  think, 
With  one  eye  screwed  in  a  pleasant  wink. 

There  was  the  clock  at  the  factory  yard, 
Ticking  and  clicking  sharp  and  hard, 


1 64    THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN 

With  a  dingy  little  iron  face, 

And  a  bell  that  banged  the  hours  apace. 

The  dial  was  flat,  the  figures  were  lean 

As  if  half-starved  —  all  cheap  and  mean  ; 

And  a  timid  flower,  in  a  chink  forlorn, 

The  hands  had  scissored  and  dropped  in  scorn. 

On  an  ancient,  somewhat  ruined  building 
Was  a  college  clock;   no  paint  or  gilding, 
Stern  and  classic,  dreary  and  dread, 
And  the  ivy  on  it  was  dead  —  all  dead. 
Some  cherubs  were  sculptured  around  in  places, 
But  the  moss  was  growing  on  their  faces, 
And  the  dial  was  propped  by  an  angel  which 
Had  been  clipped  in  the  wings  to  fit  its  niche. 
In  the  old  stone  belfry's  chinks  and  loops, 
With  coo  and  flutter  the  soft  white  troops 
Of  the  doves  were  just  beginning  to  come, 
With  a  breath  of  purity  and  home. 

Hundreds  such  secular  ones  he  saw, 
But  the  great  church  clocks  laid  down  the  law. 
Throned  on  the  stone  cathedral's  tower, 
A  huge  old  time-piece  thundered  the  hour. 
Its  face  like  a  face  in  a  mask  appeared. 
For  above,  it  scowled,  and  below,  it  leered. 
The  dial  figures  were  shrunken  men, 
And  Peter's  keys  made  the  X  for  ten. 
The  hour-hand  clawed  as  an  invitation 
Beckoning  every  tribe  and  nation, 
But  a  trick  of  perspective  made  you  suppose 


THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN    165 

The  finger  was  laid  aside  of  the  nose. 

The  wheels  all  creaked  and  groaned  as  they  went ; 

It  would  soon  run  down,  that  was  evident. 

Close  on  the  great  cathedral's  toes 
A  spick-span  little  building  rose, 
With  a  door  like  the  arch  of  a  Roman  nose. 
Its  Gothic  windows  were  stained  so  thick 
That  scant  was  the  light  that  could  through  them  prick. 
Around  on  the  spires  were  a  dozen  clocks, 
As  though  they  had  settled  there  in  flocks  — 
A  brood  from  its  neighbor's  single  tower  ; 
And  whenever  the  old  clock  struck  the  hour, 
These  little  gilt  ones  with  all  their  power 
Chimed  hurriedly  in.    They  were  all  so  made 
That  lively  Italian  tunes  they  played, 
And  odd  little  figures,  all  arrayed 
In  patch-work  petticoats,  trotted  out 
(Moved  by  machinery,  no  doubt), 
And  bobbed,  and  trotted  in  again, 
Every  time  that  the  hands  said  when. 
In  place  of  Peter's  keys  for  ten 
Was  a  fat  St.  Timothy,  going  to  take 
A  little  wine  for  his  stomach's  sake. 

Up  a  street  that  was  always  choked  with  people 
Was  a  great,  thick  clock,  on  a  great,  thick  steeple. 
'T  was  a  wooden  building,  big  and  bare, 
With  not  much  light,  but  plenty  of  air, 
And  a  dead-earnest  look,  as  if  the  man 
That  made  it  had  understood  his  plan. 


i66   THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN 

'T  was  a  thumping,  whacking  clock,  that  would  chase 

All  sensitive  birds  away  from  the  place, 

And  it  seemed  to  have  struck  itself  red  in  the  face. 

One  clock,  on  a  building  of  colors  various, 
Had  beside  it  a  statue  of  St.  Arius. 
The  dial-face  seemed  made  of  shell, 
It  shifted  its  changeable  hues  so  well. 
Its  figure  three  had  been  whittled  away, 
And  it  wore  a  smile  which  seemed  to  say 
That  all  was  sweet  and  nothing  vile, 
And  the  universe  made  of  sugar  and  style ; 
That  this  hitherto  troublesome  mortal  coil 
Could  be  made  quite  smooth  with  honey  and  oil. 
'T  was  really  a  little  hard  to  say, 
In  spite  of  its  air  of  being  au  fait, 
Exactly  what  was  its  time  of  day  ; 
Its  pointers  were  stretched  so  far  from  the  dial, 
That  you  gave  it  up,  on  the  second  trial, 
For  you  saw  at  once  it  depended  rather 
Which  side  you  stood,  and  how  near  it,  whether 
The  hand  and  a  figure  fell  together. 

But  a  positive  clock,  on  a  new  French  school, 
Seemed  to  pride  itself  it  was  no  such  fool 
To  go  groping  around  to  follow  the  sun  : 
Why,  who  could  prove  there  was  any  sun  ? 
So  its  hands  were  nailed  at  half-past  one, 
And  its  wheels,  all  dust,  in  a  crust  of  rust, 
Were   bound  not  to   budge    till  't  was    proved    they 
must. 


THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN    167 

Well,  besides  these  and  hundreds  more, 
Each  man  had  a  watch,  and  over  his  door 
A  family  clock,  and  folks  do  say 
That  many  a  soul  kept  hidden  away 
In  a  secret  pocket,  innerly  sewed, 
A  private  watch  that  he  never  showed, 
Which  the  maker  and  giver  had  begged  might  be 
Kept  with  the  great  sun  to  agree. 
But  nobody  trusted  to  these  —  not  one. 
It  was  too  much  trouble  to  take  the  sun, 
And,  besides,  it  would  bring  on  knocks  and  shocks 
From  the  public  to  differ  with  the  clocks. 
So  by  them  they  ate,  drank,  rose,  and  slept, 
Blessed  and  cursed,  rejoiced  and  wept. 

And  every  clock  thought :   "  Ho  !   my  chime 
Keeps  the  great  world  in  tune  and  time  !  " 
And  every  church  thought :  "  Ho  !   my  tower 
Points  upward,  motionless,  hour  by  hour  — 
Aims  ever  the  same  with  steadfast  power ! " 
And  little  they  knew,  as  they  watched  the  blue, 
That  round  with  the  plump  old  earth  they  flew, 
Eternally  shifting  to  somewhere  new ; 
Till  there  was  n't  a  star  in  the  dusted  fire, 
Eastern  or  western,  lower  or  higher, 
But  had  blinked  along  each  silly  spire. 

'  So  Yunus,  the  small  man,  bald  and  brown, 
Entered  this  clock-ridden  Gnoster-town. 
His  watch  ran  well ;  't  was  a  gift  from  the  king ; 
A  quaint,  old-fashioned  sort  of  thing, 


1 68    THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN 

With  a  rough  and  wrinkled  leathern  case, 

As  if  it  copied  from  his  face 

The  parchment  wrinkles  there,  well-earned, 

The  spectrum-lines  where  life  had  burned. 

It  seemed  with  salt-brine  crusted  dim, 

But  safe  within  the  rusty  rim 

Its  bright,  clean  wheels  ran  true  and  trim, 

And  steadily  by  the  steady  sun 

With  cheery  tick  their  race  went  on. 

No  need  had  he  that  another  tell 

The  hour  which  the  deep  sky  told  so  well, 

For  still  was  the  rough-faced  watch  kept  true 

By  the  golden  furrow  across  the  blue. 

Through  the  gate  and  up  the  street 
Trod  Yunus  with  unresting  feet. 
'T  was  three  o'clock  ;   he  was  belated ; 
In  Gnoster  dinner  never  waited. 
But  lo  !   he  stops  in  dumb  amaze : 
The  swarm  of  clocks  confronts  his  gaze. 
Some  ticked  loud,  and  some  ticked  soft ; 
One  seemed  to  wheeze,  another  coughed ; 
And  their  thousand  hands  gave  out  that  soon 
Their  thousand  throats  would  bellow  noon. 

Then  Yunus  saw,  what  dazed  him  more, 
That  each  man  motionless  stood  by  his  door, 
Holding  his  watch  in  his  open  hand, 
As  a  carved  tobacconist's  man  might  stand, 
Waiting  breathlessly  to  see 
If  his  time  with  the  great  town-clocks  agree. 


THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN  169 

Then  a  silent  laugh  just  pushed  its  way 
Over  Yunus'  face  of  wrinkled  clay, 
Like  a  gleam  of  sun  on  a  cloudy  day. 
And  he  asked  of  a  citizen  standing  near, 
"  Pray,  which  is  the  standard  time-piece  here  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  well,  there  's  a  many  of  'em,"  quoth  he, 
"  So  we  strike  an  average,  and  agree 
Once  a  week,  by  majority. 
If  some  seem  getting  rather  slow, 
Nor  any  progressive  zeal  can  show, 
We  touch  'em  up  a  little,  you  know ; 
And  if  some  are  ahead,  and  seem  to  lack 
Conservative  sense,  we  set  'em  back." 

Then  Yunus  stammered  :  "  Should  n't  you  say 
That  this  was  rather  a  dubious  way  ? 
And  don't  you  really  happen  to  know 
That  your  time  is  at  least  three  hours  too  slow  ?  " 

The  man  winked  wildly  with  both  his  eyes 
In  a  kind  of  horrified  surprise, 
Gasped  once  or  twice  like  a  shower-bathed  wight, 
Then,  utterly  speechless,  took  to  flight. 

And  then  to  a  boy  :  "  My  little  lad, 
Are  these  Gnoster  people  all  stark  mad  ? 
Those    clocks    are    three    hours    too    slow ! "     he 

said. 

But  the  frightened  urchin  screamed  and  ran, 
And  running  he  screamed  that  here  was  a  man 
Who  doubted  and  flouted  the  Gnoster  clocks. 
And  forth  the  populace  rushed  in  flocks, 


1 7o    THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN 

With  threat  and  curse  and  club,  pell-mell^ 
All  eager  to  rout  the  infidel. 

Well,  Yunus  thought  that  his  watch  was  right  ; 
But,  rather  than  make  a  scene,  or  fight, 
He  hid  himself  till  the  wrath  died  down, 
Then  hired  him  a  lodging  in  Gnoster-town. 
Yet  he  never  could  snatch  a  quiet  walk 
But  the  streets  were  hissing  with  muttered  talk; 
The  urchins  followed  him  with  stones, 
The  elders  filled  the  air  with  groans, 
As  they  watched,  those  steady  streets  along, 
The  wretch  who  thought  their  clocks  were  wrong. 

Then  Yunus,  taking  himself  to  task, 
Began  to  pluck  his  beard,  and  ask, 
"  O  heretic,  O  hapless  wight ! 
Can  a  thousand  be  wrong,  and  one  be  right  ? 
O  Yunus,  Yunus  !   they  must  be  true, 
JFor  there  's  more  of  them  than  there  is  of  you  !  " 

Ofttimes  he  thought  he  would  climb,  next  day, 
To  that  mountain  summit,  high  away, 
Still,  unvisited,  cold,  severe, 
Like  a  soul  that  is  far  from  earth,  and  near 
To  the  starry  spaces,  vast  and  clear. 
"  And  there,  lift  up  alone,"  thought  he, 
"  That  heaven's  true  hour  mine  eyes  may  see, 
A  dial  I  will  build  for  me ; 
A  marble  cube,  all  carven  square, 
With  a  silver  gnomon,  white  and  fair, 
Down  which  the  good  sun,  calm  and  sure, 


THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN    171 

Shall  point  the  hours  with  finger  pure. 

And  power  to  my  life  that  light  shall  bring 

To  beat  with  the  wide  world's  rhythmic  swing." 

But  more  and  more  it  seemed  to  him 
That  his  own  conviction  was  a  whim. 
And  yet,  as  it  fell  out,  ere  long, 
In  spite  of  their  being  a  thousand  strong, 
His  lonely  thought  was  right,  they  wrong. 

For  weeks  he  slept  when  his  own  watch  said 
'T  was  the  proper  time  for  going  to  bed, 
And  he  waked  at  the  kiss  of  the  dawn's  first  beams, 
While  the  Gnoster  people  were  deep  in  dreams. 

At  first  it  was  a  pleasant  thing 
To  hear  the  dawn's  first  preluding, 
Till  the  tinkle  of  starlight  died  away, 
And  the  golden  trumpet-blast  of  day, 
Clanging  all  up  the  eastern  gray, 
Broke  on  a  hollow,  silent  world; 
And  to  see  the  banneret  flowers  unfurled 
From  the  battlements  of  the  turf,  and  own 
A  new  earth,  lit  for  him  alone. 
His  eyes  were  clear,  his  soul  all  free 
To  stand,  at  Nature's  mother-knee, 
And  greet,  with  reverent  forehead  bare, 
His  brothers  of  the  sky  and  air. 

But  slowly  he  had  lost  that  tone ; 
JT  was  something  still  and  ghostly  grown, 
And  dull,  to  be  up  so  long  alone ; 
A  little  chilly,  too,  withal, 


172    THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN 

While  each  long  shadow  seemed  a  pall ; 
And  being  of  too  weak  a  mood 
To  feed  on  Nature  as  a  food, 
It  turned  him  somewhat  faint,  at  last, 
To  wait  till  the  village  broke  its  fast. 
So  the  hollow  goneness,  hunger-lined, 
His  little  courage  undermined. 
He  gave  it  up,  abjured,  confessed, 
Took  him  a  business,  made  much  pelf, 
Laid  by  his  watch  on  a  dusty  shelf, 
And  kept  his  squints  at  the  sun  to  himself; 
Even  gained  a  place  from  the  orthodox 
As  winder  to  one  of  the  public  clocks. 

So  for  many  a  day  it  ran  ; 

He  had  changed  his  time,  but  it  changed  the  man. 
There  were  flesh-pots  plenty  and  stoups  of  wine, 
But  no  more  solitudes  divine  — 
No  gaze  towards  the  mountain  height  afar  — 
No  friendship  with  the  beckoning  star. 

cc  All  very  well,"  you  '11  say,  and  take 
The  ground,  "  What  difference  does  it  make 
What  hour  we  eat,  or  sleep,  or  wake  ?  " 
But  the  Lord  of  Mhundus  thought  not.  so. 
He  had  observed,  with  inward  woe, 
That,  what  with  tobacco,  wealth,  and  rum, 
And  natural  heaviness  with  some, 
Great  sloth  his  realm  had  overcome. 
So  an  edict,  which  was  framed  to  fix 
The  rising  hour  at  half-past  six, 


THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN    173 

Throughout  the  land  he  caused  to  go ; 
And  then,  the  law's  success  to  know, 
He  took  a  trip  incognito. 

You  guess  the  sequel.    Happening  round 
At  Gnoster  after  nine,  he  found 
The  village  sunk  in  sleep  profound  — 
One  choral  snore  the  only  sound ; 
Save  where,  o'erhead,  the  clocks,  sedate, 
Stupid  and  solemn,  little  and  great, 
Went  ticking  on,  three  hours  too  late. 

The  royal  wrath  was  deep  and  wide : 
He  called  a  magician  to  his  side, 
Who  swift  his  hocus-pocus  plied, 
And  laid  a  thrice-inwoven  spell 
On  the  Gnoster  sleepers,  deep  and  well. 
Not  a  soul  of  them  waked  forevermore, 
And  some  who  are  versed  in  ancient  lore 
Say  when  it  thunders  you  hear  them  snore. 

Ah  !   if  only  Yunus  had  held  his  own, 
Though  they  were  a  thousand  and  he  alone  ! 
For  had  he  been  up,  that  morning  bland, 
He,  faithful  alone  to  the  king's  command, 
Had  risen  a  duke  by  the  royal  hand. 
But  he  let  it  be  as  it  was  to  be, 
And  was  doomed  with  the  great  majority. 

All  the  king's  sages  then  searched  to  see 
How  in  the  world  it  could  possibly  be, 
When  the  noon  was  so  simple  a  thing  to  find, 
That  a  town  should  stay  three  hours  behind. 


174   THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN 

It  was  found  they  had  fetched  the  time  of  day 
From  a  place  three  hundred  leagues  away  — 
An  hour  too  slow,  of  course,  nor  thought 
Of  getting  their  own  from  the  sky  as  they  ought. 
Then  a  timid  bird,  a  poor  scared  thing, 
Flying  on  panic-stricken  wing 
Past  the  clock  on  the  great  church  tower, 
Brushed  back  its  hand  another  hour ; 
And  at  last,  by  their  average  method  blind, 
They  had  crept  the  third  long  hour  behind. 

To  finish  the  story,  let  me  say 
What  the  court  preacher  preached  next  day. 

"  Don't  borrow  a  creed  from  other  people, 
Nor  hang  most  faith  on  the  stoutest  steeple. 
Look  up  for  your  law,  but  oh  !  look  higher 
Than  the  hands  on  any  human  spire. 
If  ten  think  alike,  and  you  think  alone, 
That  never  proves  't  is  ten  to  one 
They  are  right,  you  wrong ;  for  truth,  you  see, 
Is  not  a  thing  of  majority. 
It  never  can  make  you  false,  them  true, 
That  there  's  more  of  them  than  there  is  of  you  : 
If  your  touch  is  on  Truth's  garment's  hem, 
There  is  more  of  you  than  a  world  of  them. 
'T  is  not  alone  in  the  Orient  region 
That  a  certain  hero's  name  is  Legion. 
Nor  was  it  only  for  once  to  be 

That   the    whole    herd    together    ran    down    to    the 
sea. 


THE  CLOCKS  OF  GNOSTER-TOWN    175 

Your  zenith  for  no  man  else  is  truej 
Your  beam  from  the  sun  comes  alone  to  you  ; 
And  the  thought  the  great  God  gave  your  brain, 
Is  your  own  for  the  world,  or  the  world  's  in  vain." 

Horae  pereunt  et  imputantur. 


THE   LOST    BIRD 

WHAT  cared  she  for  the  free  hearts  ?    She  would  com 
fort 

The  prisoned  one  : 

What  recked  I  of  the  wanton  other  singers  ? 
She  sang  for  me  alone  — 
Was  all  my  own,  my  own  ! 

But  when  they  loaded  me  with  heavier  fetters, 

And  chained  I  lay, 
How  could  she  know  I  longed  to  reach  her  window? 

Athirst  the  livelong  day, 

At  eve  she  fled  away. 

Still  stands  her  cage  wide  open  at  the  casement, 

In  sun  and  rain, 

Though  years  have  gone,  and  rust  has  thickly  gath 
ered,  — 

My  watching  all  in  vain  ; 

She  will  not  come  again. 

Against  its  wires  I  strum  with  idle  ringers 

From  morn  to  noon ; 
I  swing  the  door  with  loitering  touch,  and  listen 

To  hear  that  old-time  tune, 

Sweet  as  the  soul  of  June. 


THE    LOST    BIRD  177 

My  bird,  my  silver  voice  that  cheered  my  prison, 

Hushed,  lost  to  me  : 
And  still  I  wait  for  death,  in  chains,  forsaken, 

(Soon  may  the  summons  be  !) 

But  she  is  free. 

-"Is  free?" 

Nay,  in  the  palace  porches  caught  and  hanging, 

Who  says  't  is  gay, 
The  song  the  false  prince  hears  ?  who  says  her  sing- 

»ngi 

From  day  to  summer  day, 
Grieves  not  her  heart  away  ? 

But  when  my  dream  comes  true  in  that  last  sleeping, 

And  death  makes  free, 
Against  the  blue  shall  snowy  wings  come  sweeping, 

My  bird  flown  back  to  me, 

Mine  for  eternity  ! 


SUMMER   RAIN 

I  SAID,  "  Blue  heaven  "  (Oh,  it  was  beautiful !) 

"  Send  me  a  tent  to  shut  me  to  myself: 

I  am  all  lonely  for  my  soul,  that  wanders 

Weary,  bewildered,  beckoned  by  thy  depths; 

Thy  white,  round  clouds,  great  bubbles  of   creamy 

snow ; 

Thy  luscious  sunshine,  like  some  ripe,  gold  fruit ; 
Thy  songs  of  birds,  and  wind  warm  with  the  flowers." 

And  there  swept  down  (Oh,  it  was  beautiful !) 

A  tent  of  silver  rain,  that  fell  like  a  veil 

Shutting  me  in  to  think  all  quiet  thoughts, 

And  feel  the  vibrant  thrill  of  shadowy  wings 

That  fluttered,  checking  their  swift  flight,  and  hear, 

Though  with  no  syllable  of  earthly  music, 

A  voice  of  melody  unutterable. 


THE    BELLOWS-BOY 

I  BLOW  the  organ  at  St.  Timothy's. 
Did  you  know  't  was  not  the  master,  after  all, 
(I  used  to  think  so,  too)  that  speaks  the  great 
Sweet  sounds  ?    He  only  beckons  at  the  keys, 
And  God's  winds  come  and  sing  for  him ;  while  I, 
I  draw  the  great  winds  in  from  up  the  air. 
'T  is  hard,  I  tell  you  !    Sometimes  they  hold  back, 
And  make  me  tug  and  strain  to  draw  them  in. 
But  then  they  always  come  :   all  except  once, 
When  I  forgot  to  do  my  work. 

You  see, 

'T  was  a  wild  night,  and  after  church  was  done, 
The  dear  old  voices  had  been  battling  hard, 
Near  drowned  in  storm  and  sea,  and  had  got  forth 
Out  of  the  roar  and  whirl,  and  on  the  beach 
Lay  panting,  while  the  waves  died  into  sobs, 
Leaving  them  lying,  watching  the  soft  foam.  — 
I  fell  to  dreaming  with  them,  listening 
How  the  blue  water  plashed,  quiet  and  far, 
Till,  of  a  sudden,  a  horrible,  drawn  wail, 
Then  silence,  out  of  which  I  started,  dazed, 
At  a  fierce  red  face  and  raging  whisper,  "  Blow ! " 


i8o  THE    BELLOWS-BOY 

They  took  my  work  away,  for  that ;  but  soon 
I  begged  and  begged  it  back  again,  and  now 
I  try  to  tug  so  hard  as  not  to  hear. 

Sometimes  I  creep  round  nights,  when  the  choir  is 

gone, 

And  stealthily  unlock  the  carved  oak  doors, 
To  flatten  my  hand  along  the  ivory  keys, 
As  smooth  and  chill  as  ice.    They  will  not  speak,  — 
The  smooth  white  lips,  yet  always  I  hear  tunes, 
Back  in  the  empty  dark,  and  over  me 
In  the  gold  pipes  :   it  may  be  my  own  thoughts, 
Playing  at  music.    One  I  always  hear 
That  hangs  in  the  dark  like  a  great  white  flower,  and 

there 
It  grows  and  fades. 

For,  once,  the  minister 

(Him  with  the  great  high  forehead),  Christmas  Day, 
Walked  down  the  alley,  and  stopped,  and  spoke  to 

me 

(Faith  !   but  I  shook,  though,  when  his  steady  hand 
Stayed  on  my  head  a  minute),  and  he  said 
That  even  the  master,  and  he,  and  every  one  — 
Even  the  beautiful  people  in  the  choir  — 
Only  did  work  like  mine,  moved  hands  or  lips, 
While   the    music    all   was   God's,    and    came    from 

Him. 


THE    BELLOWS-BOY  181 

So,  ever  since,  it  has  come  into  my  tunes, 
That  maybe  in  that  world  I  can  make  sounds 
Like  the  great,  sweet  ones,  and  may  have  white  keys 
All  of  my  own,  and  not  so  cold  and  dumb, 
Nights,  when  I  touch  them  ! 


THE   NEW   YEAR 

Go,  minister  of  God, 

To  drowsy  pews  where  nod 

Your  flock,  who  know  so  well 

The  empty  tale  you  tell  ! 

Some  morning  go  and  dare 

Speak  what  your  real  thoughts  are, 

See  them  awake,  and  stare  ! 

Go,  father,  to  your  sons,  — 

Yea,  to  those  milder  ones, 

The  daughters,  soft  and  meek ; 

And  after  sermon  speak 

No  half-truths,  told  with  tact, 

But  what  you  think  is  fact. 

Go,  wielder  of  the  pen  ! 

Write  for  your  fellow-men 

What  you  have  hinted  true 

In  whispers  to  a  few. 

But  you  must  look  to  see 
What  present  loss  't  will  be  ? 
Ah,  wielder  of  the  pen, 
They  will  not  praise  you  then  ! 
Ah,  minister  of —  Whom  ?  — 
There  will  be  sudden  room 


THE    NEW  YEAR  183 

In  every  velvet  pew, 
If  you  but  once  speak  true. 
Shame  on  you,  cowards  all ! 
Is  God's  great  throne  to  fall 
Except  you  prop  it  round 
With  your  poor  empty  sound  ? 
Think  ye  you  '11  ne'er  be  fed 
Unless,  by  Satan  led, 
You  bid  your  stones  be  bread  ? 
You  think  the  universe 
Goes  on  from  bad  to  worse, 
And  with  some  glittering  bait 
You  '11  coax  it  from  its  fate  ? 
You  think  all  truth  was  given 
To  you  from  cautious  heaven, 
To  keep  beneath  your  thumb, 
And  dole  out,  crumb  by  crumb, 
Lest  haply,  if  once  known, 
The  world  were  overthrown  ? 
The  world  —  O  faithless  clod  ! 
Who  made  it,  —  you,  or  God  ? 
Ah,  well,  this  seems  His  way : 
He  made  the  cowards,  too ; 
He  leaves  the  false  with  true  — 
He  leaves  it  till  the  day 
When  suddenly  men  shall  say, 
"  What !   you  were  one,  —  and  you  ? 
It  was  no  scattered  few  ? 
Why  not,  if  we  all  knew, 


1 84  THE    NEW  YEAR 

Have  told  each  other  so, 
Openly,  long  ago  ?  " 

Yes  :  let  us  understand, 

Now,  on  whose  side  we  stand, — 

The  poor  old  man's  at  Rome, 

Good  but  to  feebly  foam 

At  each  new  torch  men  light, 

Encroaching  on  his  night ; 

Or  theirs,  who  find  God's  way 

By  no  dark  lantern's  ray, 

But  in  the  light  of  day. 

Of  all  the  pillars  fair 
Holding  the  world  in  air, 
Canst  thou  one  shaft  espy 
Based  on  a  crafty  lie  ? 
Is  but  one  column  there 
A  sham,  an  empty  shell  ? 
Not  one  ?    Then  hew  away, 
All  good  right  arms  that  may : 
No  falsehood  we  can  fell 
Holds  up  God's  citadel. 
For  every  cheat  that  falls, 
The  firmer  stand  the  walls. 
For  all  that  's  cleared  away 
Of  rubbish  and  decay, 
The  sounder  stand  and  shine 
The  square-hewn  walls  divine. 


THE    NEW  YEAR  185 

O  younger  souls  !   for  you 
'T  is  easy  to  be  true. 
Dear  spirit,  far  or  near 
Let  this  new-risen  year 
Be  a  new  birth  to  thee ; 
Stand  forth  —  be  wholly  free. 
Count  not  what  it  shall  cost,  — 
Given  for  the  world  —  not  lost, 
Deep  down  within  thy  heart, 
If  thou  dost  feel  it  start,  — 
Some  longing  to  be  free, 
Some  fresh  fidelity, 
Some  blush  upon  the  cheek 
For  all  the  past,  so  weak ; 
Some  manlier  will  to  dare,  — 
If  thou  dost  feel  it  stir, 
Grieve  not  the  messenger : 
Thy  better  angel  there 
Thou  hearest,  unaware. 


THE    TRUANT 

"  SENT  out,  was  I,  to  turn  the  sod  ? 

What  waste  of  such  a  day  ! 
Who  would  not,  under  blue  like  that, 

Fling  the  old  spade  away  ? 
If  they  but  knew  the  ripples'  plash, 

And  loved  the  lark  as  I  ! 
How  could  one  dig,  and  half  the  time 

Gaze  at  the  luscious  sky  ? 
Better  to  watch  my  dipping  kite 

Go  swaying  up  the  cloud, 
Or  mock  the  tireless  thrush,  or  shout 

My  own  free  songs  aloud." 

So  half  the  day  he  gazed,  and  wished 

The  tugging  kite  to  be, 
And  wondered  if  that  endless  sky 

Was  not  eternity. 
Or,  tossing  snowy  pebbles  out 

Beyond  the  lake's  gray  rim, 
He  stood  to  watch  the  ripple-ranks 

Come  ringing  back  to  him. 

Was  it,  I  wonder,  loitering  there 
Only  an  idle  boy  ? 


THE   TRUANT  187 

Or  was  it  a  poet,  claiming  so 

His  heritage  of  joy  ? 
Who  watched  above  the  rounded  world 

His  fancy  float  and  swim, 
Or  tossed  his  dreams  out,  watching  men's 

Brave  deeds  ring  back  to  him. 


SPRING 

WHEN  is  it  Spring?    When  spirits  rise, 
Pure  crocus-buds,  where  the  snow  dies  ; 
When  children  play  outdoors  till  dark ; 
When  the  sap  trickles  up  the  bark; 
When  bits  of  blue  sky  flit  and  sing, 
Playing  at  birds  —  then  is  it  Spring? 

When  is  it  Spring  ?    When  the  bee  hums ; 
When  through  the  opened  window  comes 
The  breeze,  and  summer-license  claims 
To  swing  and  toss  the  picture  frames ; 
When  the  walk  dries  ;   the  robins  call ; 
The  brown  hens  doze  by  the  sunny  wall, 
One  foot  drawn  up  to  warm,  or  sing, 
With  half-filmed  eyes  —  then  is  it  Spring  ? 

Nay,  each  might  prove  a  treacherous  sign  : 
But  when  old  waters  seem  new  wine  ; 
When  all  our  mates  are  half  divine ; 
When  love  comes  easier  than  hate  ; 
When  we  have  no  more  shrugs  at  Fate, 
But  think  sometimes  of  God,  and  late 
Our  swiftest  serving  seems  to  be ; 
When  bright  ways  numberless  we  see, 


SPRING  189 

And  thoughts  spring  up,  and  hopes  run  free, 
And  wild  new  dreams  are  all  on  wing, 
Till  we  must  either  fly  or  sing 
With  riotous  life  —  be  sure  't  is  Spring. 


TRANQUILLITY 

WEARY,  and  marred  with  care  and  pain 
And  bruising  days,  the  human  brain 
Draws  wounded  inward,  —  it  might  be 
Some  delicate  creature  of  the  sea, 
That,  shuddering,  shrinks  its  lucent  dome, 
And  coils  its  azure  tendrils  home, 
And  folds  its  filmy  curtains  tight 
At  jarring  contact,  e'er  so  light ; 
But  let  it  float  away  all  free, 
And  feel  the  buoyant,  supple  sea 
Among  its  tinted  streamers  swell, 
Again  it  spreads  its  gauzy  wings, 
And,  waving  its  wan  fringes,  swings 
With  rhythmic  pulse  its  crystal  bell. 

So  let  the  mind,  with  care  o'erwrought, 
Float  down  the  tranquil  tides  of  thought : 
Calm  visions  of  unending  years 
Beyond  this  little  moment's  fears ; 
Of  boundless  regions  far  from  where 
The  girdle  of  the  azure  air 
Binds  to  the  earth  the  prisoned  mind. 
Set  free  the  fancy,  till  it  find 
Beyond  our  world  a  vaster  place 


TRANQUILLITY  191 

To  thrill  and  vibrate  out  through  space,  — 

As  some  auroral  banner  streams 

Up  through  the  night  in  pulsing  gleams, 

And  floats  and  flashes  o'er  our  dreams ; 

There  let  the  whirling  planet  fall 

Down  —  down,  till  but  a  glimmering  ball, 

A  misty  star :   and  dwindled  so, 

There  is  no  room  for  care,  or  woe, 

Or  wish,  apart  from  that  one  Will 

That  doth  the  worlds  with  music  fill. 


IN   A    FAR    COUNTRY 

ONCE,  in  a  dream,  in  a  bleak,  sea-blown  land, 
A  man  wreck-stranded  many  a  month  before 
Saw  for  a  moment  —  not  the  broken  oar, 

Nor  sand-sunk  keel ;   nor  wild  men  that  would  stand 

With  uncouth  gibberish  on  either  hand 

If  he  walked  forth,  or  peered  about  the  door 
Where  stretched   he   lay  on  his  rude  hut's  beach- 
floor; 

Nor  heard  the  dull  waves  fretting  at  the  sand  : 

But  heard  once  more,  this  blessed  dream  within, 
The  mother-tongue  heard  not  these  many  years, 

And  old  familiar  motions  had  their  power; 
Saw,  for  once  more,  the  faces  of  his  kin, 

And  took  their  hands,  half-laughing,  half  in  tears, 
And    it  was    home,   home,  home,  for   this   one 
hour. 


THE   WONDERFUL   THOUGHT 

IT  comes  upon  me  in  the  woods, 
Of  all  the  days,  this  day  in  May  : 

When  wind  and  rain  can  never  think 
Whose  turn  't  is  now  to  have  its  way. 

It  finds  me  as  I  lie  along, 

Blinking  up  through  the  swaying  trees, 
Half  wondering  if  a  man  who  reads 

"  Blue  sky  "  in  books  that  color  sees,  — 

So  fathomless  and  pure  :   as  if 

All  loveliest  azure  things  have  gone 

To  heaven  that  way,  —  the  flowers,  the  sea,  - 
And  left  their  color  there  alone. 

Hark !   leaning  on  each  other's  arms, 
The  pines  are  whispering  in  the  breeze, 

Whispering,  —  then  hushing,  half  in  awe 
Their  legends  of  primeval  seas. 

The  wild  things  of  the  wood  come  out, 
And  stir  or  hide,  as  wild  things  will, 

Like  thoughts  that  may  not  be  pursued, 
But  come  if  one  is  calm  and  still. 


i94     THE    WONDERFUL   THOUGHT 

Deep  hemlocks  down  the  gorge  shut  in 
Their  caves  with  hollow  shadow  filled, 

Where  little  feathered  anchorites 
Behind  a  sunlit  lattice  build. 

And  glimmering  through  that  lace  of  boughs, 
Dancing,  while  they  hang  darker  still, 

Along  the  restful  river  shines 

The  restless  light's  incessant  thrill : 

As  in  some  sober,  silent  soul, 

Whose  life  appears  a  tranquil  stream, 

Through  some  unguarded  rift  you  catch 
The  wildest  wishes,  all  agleam. 

But  to  my  thought — so  wonderful  ! 

I  know  if  once  't  were  told,  all  men 
Would  feel  it  warm  at  heart,  and  life 

Be  more  than  it  had  ever  been. 

'T  would  make  these  flowerless  woods  laugh  out 

With  every  garden-color  bright, 
Where  only,  now,  the  dogwood  hangs 

Its  scattered  cloud  of  ghostly  white. 

Those  birds  would  hold  no  more  aloof:  — 
How  know  they  I  am  here,  so  well  ? 

'T  is  yon  woodpecker's  warning  note ; 
He  is  their  seer  and  sentinel. 


THE   WONDERFUL   THOUGHT     195 

They  use  him,  but  his  faithfulness 
Perchance  in  human  fashion  pay,— 

Laugh  in  their  feathers  at  his  voice, 
And  ridicule  his  stumbling  way. 

That  far-off  flute-note  —  hours  in  vain 
I  've  followed  it,  so  shy  and  fleet ; 

But  if  I  found  him,  well  I  know 

His  song  would  seem  not  half  so  sweet. 

The  swift,  soft  creatures,  —  how  I  wish 
They  'd  trust  me,  and  come  perch  upon 

My  shoulders  !  Do  they  guess  that  then 
Their  charm  would  be  forever  gone  ? 

But  still  I  prate  of  sight  and  sound; 

Ah,  well,  't  is  always  so  in  rhyme  ; 
The  idle  fancies  find  a  voice, 

The  wise  thought  waits  —  another  time. 


TO   "THE    RADICAL" 

1871 

AFTER  sleep,  the  waking ; 
After  night,  dawn  breaking ; 
After  silence  long, 
A  burst  of  song. 
We  knew  thou  wert  not  gone, 
To  leave  us  without  champion  — 
Our  first  free -voice  'mid  servile  tongues 
And  secret  sneers  and  bigot  wrongs  : 
With  good  Thor-hammer  beating  down 
The  tyrant  lie  with  tinsel  crown  ; 
With  message,  now  unsealed  again, 
Of  love  to  God  in  love  to  men. 
Who  calls  thy  manner  cold  as  snow  ? 
Can  pure  spring  have  the  summer's  glow, 
Or  crocus-buds  like  roses  blow  ? 
Who  says  the  dawn  is  vague  and  gray? 
So  clear,  the  sight  can  reach  away 
To  stainless  peaks  that  shine  afar 
And  dim  beyond  the  morning  star. 
Choose  who  may  the  summer  noon, 
Longing  to  be  let  alone,  — 
Force  unstrung,  and  vigor  gone. 


TO  "THE  RADICAL"  197 

Welcome  the  sweet  breath  of  Spring ! 
Morning  air  to  tempt  the  wing ; 
Distance,  cool  and  clear  and  still, 
For  the  eye  to  pierce  at  will. 
Welcome,  O  vanward  voice ! 
Sound  on  !    Be  strong  !    Rejoice  ! 
And  so,  in  thy  fresh  history, 
Foretell  the  world-old  mystery, 
Hinting  what  is  to  be 
For  us,  as  now  for  thee. 
After  sleep,  the  waking  ; 
After  night,  dawn  breaking ; 
After  silence  long, 
A  burst  of  song. 


THE   INVISIBLE 

IF  there  is  naught  but  what  we  see, 

What  is  the  wide  world  worth  to  me  ? 

But  is  there  naught  save  what  we  see  ? 

A  thousand  things  on  every  hand 

My  sense  is  numb  to  understand  : 

I  know  we  eddy  round  the  sun  ; 

When  has  it  dizzied  any  one  ? 

I  know  the  round  worlds  draw  from  far, 

Through  hollow  systems,  star  to  star ; 

But  who  has  e'er  upon  a  strand 

Of  those  great  cables  laid  his  hand? 

What  reaches  up  from  room  to  room 

Of  chambered  earth,  through  glare  or  gloom, 

Through  molten  flood  and  fiery  blast, 

And  binds  our  hurrying  feet  so  fast  ? 

'T  is  the  earth-mother's  love,  that  well 

Will  hold  the  motes  that  round  her  dwell : 

Through  granite  hills  you  feel  it  stir 

As  lightly  as  through  gossamer : 

Its  grasp  unseen  by  mortal  eyes, 

Its  grain  no  lens  can  analyze. 


THE    INVISIBLE  199 

If  there  is  naught  but  what  we  see, 
The  friend  I  loved  is  lost  to  me  : 
He  fell  asleep ;  who  dares  to  say 
His  spirit  is  so  far  away  ? 
Who  knows  what  wings  are  round  about  ? 
These  thoughts  —  who  proves  but  from  without 
They  still  are  whispered  ?    Who  can  think 
They  rise  from  morning's  food  and  drink  ! 
These  thoughts  that  stream  on  like  the  sea, 
And  darkly  beat  incessantly 
The  feet  of  some  great  hope,  and  break, 
And  only  broken  glimmers  make, 
Nor  ever  climb  the  shore,  to  lie 
And  calmly  mirror  the  far  sky, 
And  image  forth  in  tranquil  deeps 
The  secret  that  its  silence  keeps. 

Because  he  never  comes,  and  stands 
And  stretches  out  to  me  both  hands, 
Because  he  never  leans  before 
The  gate,  when  I  set  wide  the  door 
At  morning,  nor  is  ever  found 
Just  at  my  side  when  I  turn  round, 
Half  thinking  I  shall  meet  his  eyes, 
From  watching  the  broad  moon-globe  rise,  — 
For  all  this,  shall  I  homage  pay 
To  Death,  grow  cold  of  heart,  and  say, 
"  He  perished,  and  has  ceased  to  be ; 


200  THE    INVISIBLE 

Another  comes,  but  never  he  "  ? 
Nay,  by  our  wondrous  being,  nay  ! 
Although  his  face  I  never  see 
Through  all  the  infinite  To  Be, 
I  know  he  lives  and  cares  for  me. 


A   DRIFTING   CLOUD 

BORN  of  the  shadows  that  it  passes  through, 
Incessantly  becoming  and  destroyed, 

Its  form  unchanged,  its  substance  ever  new, 
Builded  from  its  own  largess  to  the  void ; 

Of  steady  purpose  innerly  aware, 

Yet  blindly  borne  upon  the  streaming  air, — 

Giving  itself  away,  distributing 

Its  own  abundant  heart  in  splendid  showers, 
But  not  impoverished,  since  its  losses  bring 

Perpetual  renewing  all  the  hours  : 
Drifting,  sunlit  or  shadowed,  to  the  sea, — 
O  cloud,  thou  hast  a  human  destiny  ! 


A    REPLY 

To  the  mother  of  the  world, 
Not  for  help  or  light  or  grace, 
Basely  I  for  comfort  came  : 
And  I  brought  my  craven  fears, 
Late  amends  of  useless  tears, 
Brought  my  stumbling  feet  so  lame, 
Hopes  with  weary  pinions  furled, 
Every  longing  unattained, 
All  my  love  with  self-love  stained,  — 
Told  them  to  her  grave,  mild  face. 

And  the  mother  of  the  world 
Spake,  and  answered  unto  me, 
In  the  brook  that  past  me  purled ; 
In  the  bluebird's  heavenly  hue, 
When  beyond  his  downward  swerve 
Up  he  glanced,  a  sweep  of  blue  ; 
In  the  sunshine's  shifting  spray, 
Drifted  in  beneath  the  tree 
Where  I  sheltered,  lest  its  flood 
There  outside  should  drown  my  blood ; 
In  the  cloud-pearl's  melting  curve  ; 
In  the  little  odorous  thrill 
Trembling  from  each  blossom-bell ; 


A    REPLY  203 

In  the  silence  of  the  sky, 
And  the  thoughts  that  from  it  fell, 
Floating  as  a  snowflake  will,  — 
So  the  mother  answered  me  : 

"  Child  !   it  is  not  thine  to  see 
Why  at  all  thy  life  should  be, 
Wherefore  thou  must  thus  abide, 
Foiled,  repulsed,  unsatisfied. 
Thou  hast  not  to  prove  thy  right 
To  the  earth-room  and  the  light. 
Thou  hast  not  to  justify 
Thought  of  mine  to  human  eye. 
I  have  borne  thee  !    Trust  to  me  ! 
Strength  and  help  are  in  thy  deed ; 
Comfort  thou  shalt  scorn  to  need. 
Careless  what  shall  come  to  thee, 
Look  but  what  thy  work  shall  be." 


THE  SCHOOLHOUSE  WINDOWS 

HOPE  builded  herself  a  palace 

At  the  heart  of  the  oak-roofed  town, 

And  out  of  its  airy  windows 
Her  happy  eyes  looked  down  : 

Her  eyes  —  the  beautiful  eyes  of  Hope  — 

All  day  were  shining  there, 
And  the  morning  heard  her  merry  songs 

Ring  out  on  the  fresh  sea-air. 

Full  many  a  changing  face  has  she 
For  the  changing  earth  below, 

And  to  each  the  magical  windows 
A  different  picture  show. 

As  when  you  stand  in  the  twilight 

And  watch  through  the  darkling  pane, 

Till  the  image  of  your  face  appears 
Against  the  fading  plain, 

And  a  wider  world  is  opened,  — 

The  ghost  of  the  firelit  room 
That  wavers  and  glows  and  glimmers 

Beyond  in  the  hollow  gloom, — 


THE  SCHOOLHOUSE  WINDOWS      205 

Till,  out  through  the  mirrored  phantoms, 

The  stars  and  the  spectral  trees 
Are  the  dim  and  columned  corridors 

Of  wonderful  palaces, 

So  each  of  the  childish  faces 

That  looks  out  into  the  air, 
Through  an  image  of  itself  must  see 

That  colors  all  things  there ; 

And  the  hill  and  the  azure  water 

Can  never  be  twice  the  same, 
For  the  hue  of  the  seeing  eye  will  tint 

Its  vision  in  dust  or  flame. 

Our  lives  are  but  what  we  see  them ; 

Bright,  if  the  eye-beams  are  :  — 
Not  what  shines  in,  but  what  shines  out, 

Makes  every  world  a  star. 

So  when  at  the  schoolhouse  windows 

They  stand,  the  guileless  wise, 
I  peer  o'er  the  clustered  shoulders, 

And  see  with  their  own  bright  eyes. 

Then  the  vanishing  mists  of  morning 

Like  airy  portals  ope, 
And  the  hills  that  lift  their  slopes  beyond 

Are  the  boundless  realms  of  Hope. 


206     THE   SCHOOLHOUSE  WINDOWS 

The  slim  ships,  out  of  the  western  haze, 

Come  moving,  dim  and  still, 
As  if  the  sights  of  the  solemn  sea 

Had  awed  them  like  a  spell. 

And  as  a  quiet,  land-locked  bay 

Their  schooldays  seem  to  be, 
And  they  long,  through  the  gate  of  golden  years, 

To  pass  to  the  world's  wide  sea. 

Then  we  look  from  the  sunny  windows 

On  the  lives  that  plod  below, 
Who  guess  not  how,  to  us,  their  ways 

'Twixt  blooming  gardens  go  ; 

And  we  see  how  every  toiling  life 

May  look  serene  and  fair, 
If  the  soul  but  climb  above  itself 

And  gaze  from  the  upper  air. 

But  the  master,  after  school  is  done, 

And  the  children  are  all  away, 
He  reads  in  the  window-panes  the  thoughts 

That  have  winged  from  them  all  day. 

As  he  watches  the  loud  troop  homeward, 

Till  the  pattering  feet  are  still, 
He  reads  the  innocent  musings 

That  the  crystal  tablets  fill. 


THE   SCHOOLHOUSE  WINDOWS     207 

There  one  had  leaned  and  listened, 

And  heard  in  the  empty  air 
Invisible  armies  marching 

To  the  soundless  trumpet's  blare. 

And  one  had  caught  the  motion 

Of  the  great  world  round  the  sun, 
Till  he  felt  on  his  face  the  rush  of  space 

As  the  whirling  Earth-ball  spun. 

The  dream  and  the  aspiration; 

The  glimpse  of  the  higher  home  ; 
The  noble  scorn  of  the  world  that  is, 

And  the  worship  of  that  to  come  : 

The  thirst  for  a  life  diviner, 

And  the  sigh  of  self-despair, 
That  rose  through  the  blue  to  the  gate  of  heaven 

And  was  answered  like  a  prayer. 

Ah,  for  him  the  panes  are  crowded 

With  the  volumes  of  such  lore, 
And  the  children  will  catch,  to-morrow, 

The  glimmers  of  days  before  ; 

Till  the  dry  and  dreary  lesson 

In  luminous  letters  shines, 
Where  the  magical  schoolhouse  windows 

Have  written  between  the  lines. 


208     THE   SCHOOLHOUSE   WINDOWS 

But  the  brightest  of  all  the  windows 

In  the  palace  of  Hope  so  fair, 
Are  the  eyes  where  merry  thoughts  climb  up 

And  beckon  each  other  there. 

There  are  clear  and  sea-blue  windows 

Behind  whose  pencilled  bars 
The  bright  hours  are  all  sunshine, 

And  the  dark  ones  lit  with  stars  : 

And  there  are  shady  casements, 

That  gentle  secFets  keep, 
And  you  seek  in  vain  through  the  clouded  pane 

If  the  spirit  wake  or  sleep  : 

An(J  oriels  gray,  where,  cool  and  still, 

The  soul  leans  out  to  see, 
As  you  shape  for  the  prince  the  sword  and  crown 

Of  the  king  that  is  to  be. 

The  years  of  the  unknown  future 

Even  now  are  on  the  wing, 
Like  a  flight  of  beautiful  singing  birds 

From  the  distance  hastening. 

O  children,  O  blind  musicians, 

With  powers  beyond  your  ken, 
Moulding,  but  guessing  not,  the  souls 

That  shall  wear  your  faces  then  — 


THE    SCHOOLHOUSE    WINDOWS      209 

Shall  the  look  be  clear  with  truth,  or  drear 

And  hollow  with  mocking  days  ? 
Shall  the  eyes  be  sweet  with  the  love  of  man, 

Or  shrunk  with  the  lust  of  praise  ? 

And  what,  from  those  future  windows, 

Shall  the  magical  pictures  be  ?  — 
The  scattered  wrecks  of  fleets  of  care, 

Or  a  blessed  argosy  ? 

Perchance  when  ye  come  and  stand  and  muse 
On  the  years  that  were  half  in  vain, 

A  mist  that  is  not  of  the  ocean  born 
May  be  blurring  the  window-pane. 

And  one  may  sigh  to  remember 

The  old-time  wishes  there, 
And  the  bows  of  empty  promise 

That  have  broken  in  the  air. 

And  some  shall  wonder  and  wonder, 

As  they  think  of  the  days  of  old, 
How  their  world  from  the  schoolhouse  windows 

Could  have  looked  so  bare  and  cold : 

For  the  mist  that  was  thick  at  morning, 
From  the  noon  shall  have  risen  and  fled, 

And  the  air  shall  be  full  of  fragrance  now, 
From  the  blossoms  that  it  fed. 


210      THE    SCHOOLHOUSE    WINDOWS 

O  friends,  have  the  paths  grown  empty  ? 

Do  the  winds  play  out  of  tune  ? 
Have  the  early  gleams  of  glory  gone 

From  the  sober  afternoon  ? 

Then  follow  the  little  footprints 

Out  from  your  care  and  pain, 
And  the  world  from  the  schoolhouse  windows 

Will  look  all  young  again. 

Oh,  the  never-forgotten  schooldays  ! 

Whose  music,  fresh  and  pure, 
Is  woven  of  hints  of  songs  to  come, 

Like  a  beautiful  overture — =• 

When  the  spirit  had  not  touched  its  bounds 

Of  weakness  or  of  sin, 
But  the  nebulous  light  was  round  it  still 

Of  the  soul  it  might  have  been. 

Oh,  the  old  earth  will  be  Eden, 

Fairer  than  that  of  yore, 
When  the  young  hearts  all  shall  grow  to  be 

What  the  good  God  meant  them  for  ! 

We  are  all  but  His  schoolchildren, 
And  earth  is  our  schoolhouse  now, 

Where  duties  are  set  for  lessons  — 
Whose  windows  are  midnight's  blue. 


THE   SCHOOLHOUSE    WINDOWS     211 

And  out  through  that  starry  casement, 
Some  night  when  the  skies  are  clear, 

We  shall  watch  the  mists  of  time  lift  up 
And  the  hills  of  heaven  appear. 


A    FOOLISH    WISH 

WHY  need  I  seek  some  burden  small  to  bear 

Before  I  go  ? 
Will  not  a  host  of  nobler  souls  be  here, 

Heaven's  will  to  do  ? 
Of  stronger  hands,  unfailing,  unafraid  ? 

0  silly  soul !   what  matters  my  small  aid 

Before  I  go  ! 

1  tried  to  find,  that  I  might  show  to  them, 

Before  I  go, 
The  path  of  purer  lives :   the  light  was  dim, 

I  do  not  know 

If  I  had  found  some  footprints  of  the  way ; 
It  is  too  late  their  wandering  feet  to  stay, 
Before  I  go. 

I  would  have  sung  the  rest  some  song  of  cheer, 

Before  I  go. 
But  still  the  chords  rang  false ;   some  jar  of  fear, 

Some  jangling  woe. 

And  at  the  end  I  cannot  weave  one  chord 
To  float  into  their  hearts  my  last  warm  word, 

Before  I  go. 


A    FOOLISH    WISH  213 

I  would  be  satisfied  if  I  might  tell, 

Before  I  go, 
That  one  warm  word,  —  how  I  have  loved  them  well, 

Could  they  but  know  ! 
And    would   have   gained    for   them    some   gleam    of 

good; 
Have  sought  it  long;   still  seek,  —  if  but  I  could  ! 

Before  I  go. 

'T  is  a  child's  longing,  on  the  beach  at  play  : 

"  Before  I  go," 
He  begs  the  beckoning  mother,  "  Let  me  stay 

One  shell  to  throw  !  " 

'T  is  coming  night ;  the  great  sea  climbs  the  shore,— 
"  Ah,  let  me  toss  one  little  pebble  more,  * 

Before  I  go !  " 


THE    SECRET 

A  TIDE  of  sun  and  song  in  beauty  broke 
Against  a  bitter  heart,  where  no  voice  woke 
Till  thus  it  spoke  :  — 

What  was  it,  in  the  old  time  that  I  know, 
That  made  the  world  with  inner  beauty  glow, 
Now  a  vain  show  ? 

Still  dance  the  shadows  on  the  grass  at  play, 
Still  move  the  clouds  like  great,  calm  thoughts  away, 
Nor  haste,  nor  stay. 

But  I  have  lost  that  breath  within  the  gale, 
That  light  to  which  the  daylight  was  a  veil, 
The  star-shine  pale. 

Still  all  the  summer  with  its  songs  is  filled, 
But  that  delicious  undertone  they  held  — 
Why  is  it  stilled? 

Then  I  took  heart  that  I  would  find  again 
The  voices  that  had  long  in  silence  lain, 
Nor  live  in  vain. 


THE    SECRET  215 

I  stood  at  noonday  in  the  hollow  wind, 
Listened  at  midnight,  straining  heart  and  mind 
If  I  might  find  ! 

But  all  in  vain  I  sought,  at  eve  and  morn, 
On  sunny  seas,  in  dripping  woods  forlorn, 
Till  tired  and  worn, 

One  day  I  left  my  solitary  tent 
And  down  into  the  world's  bright  garden  went, 
On  labor  bent. 

The  dew  stars  and  the  buds  about  my  feet 
Began  their  old  bright  message  to  repeat, 
In  odors  sweet ; 

And  as  I  worked  at  weed  and  root  in  glee, 

O  ' 

Now  humming  and  now  whistling  cheerily, 
It  came  to  me,  — 

The  secret  of  the  glory  that  was  fled 
Shone  like  a  sweep  of  sun  all  overhead, 
And  something  said,  — 

"  The  blessing  came  because  it  was  not  sought ; 
There  was  no  care  if  thou  were  blest  or  not : 
The  beauty  and  the  wonder  all  thy  thought,  — 
Thyself  forgot." 


POEMS   WRITTEN    BETWEEN 

1872   AND   1880 

THE    THINGS    THAT    WILL    NOT    DIE 

WHAT  am  I  glad  will  stay  when  I  have  passed 
From  this  dear  valley  of  the  world,  and  stand 

On  yon  snow-glimmering  peaks,  and  lingering  cast 

From  that  dim  land 
A  backward  look,  and  haply  stretch  my  hand, 

Regretful,  now  the  wish  comes  true  at  last  ? 

Sweet  strains  of  music  I  am  glad  will  be 

Still  wandering  down  the  wind,  for  men  will  hear 

And  think  themselves  from  all  their  care  set  free, 

And  heaven  near 
When  summer  stars  burn  very  still  and  clear, 

And  waves  of  sound  are  swelling  like  the  sea. 

And  it  is  good  to  know  that  overhead 

Blue  skies  will  brighten,  and  the  sun  will  shine, 

And  flowers  be  sweet  in  many  a  garden  bed, 

And  all  divine 
(For  are  they  not,  O  Father,  thoughts  of  thine  ?  ) 

Earth's  warmth  and  fragrance  shall  on  men  be  shed. 


THE  THINGS  THAT  WILL  NOT  DIE  217 

And  I  am  glad  that  Night  will  always  come, 
Hushing  all  sounds,  even  the  soft-voiced  birds, 

Putting  away  all  light  from  her  deep  dome, 

Until  are  heard 
In  the  wide  starlight's  stillness,  unknown  words, 

That  make  the  heart  ache  till  it  find  its  home. 

And  I  am  glad  that  neither  golden  sky, 
Nor  violet  lights  that  linger  on  the  hill, 

Nor  ocean's  wistful  blue  shall  satisfy, 

But  they  shall  fill 
With  wild  unrest  and  endless  longing  still 

The  soul  whose  hope  beyond  them  all  must  lie. 

And  I  rejoice  that  love  shall  never  seem 

So  perfect  as  it  ever  was  to  be, 
But  endlessly  that  inner  haunting  dream 
Each  heart  shall  see 

Hinted  in  every  dawn's  fresh  purity, 
Hopelessly  shadowed  in  each  sunset's  gleam. 

And   though  warm    mouths  will    kiss  and    hands  will 

cling, 

And  thought  by  silent  thought  be  understood, 
I  do  rejoice  that  the  next  hour  will  bring 

That  far-off  mood, 

That  drives  one  like  a  lonely  child  to  God, 
Who  only  sees  and  measures  everything. 


218  THE  THINGS  THAT  WILL  NOT  DIE 

And  it  is  well  that  when  these  feet  have  pressed 
The  outward  path  from  earth,  't  will  not  seem  sad 

To  them  to  stay  ;   but  they  who  love  me  best 

Will  be  most  glad 
That  such  a  long  unquiet  now  has  had, 

At  last,  a  gift  of  perfect  peace  and  rest. 


A    CHILD    AND    A    STAR 

THE  star,  so  pure  in  saintly  white, 
Deep  in  the  solemn  soul  of  night, 
With  dreams  of  deathless  beauty  wed, 
And  golden  ways  that  seraphs  tread  : 
The  child  —  so  mere  a  thing  of  earth, 
So  meek  a  flower  of  mortal  birth  : 
A  far-off  lucent  world,  so  bright, 
Stooping  to  touch  with  tender  light 
That  little  gown  at  evening  prayer : 
It  seems  a  condescension  rare,  — 
Heaven  round  a  common  child  to  glow  ! 
Ah  !  wiser  eyes  of  angels  know 
The  star,  a  toy  but  roughly  wrought ; 
The  child,  God's  own  most  loving  thought. 
Yon  evening  planet,  wan  with  moons, 
Colossal,  'mid  its  dim,  swift  noons,  — 
What  is  it  but  a  bulk  of  stone, 
Like  this  gray  globe  we  dwell  upon  ? 
Down  hollow  spaces,  sightless,  chill, 
Its  vibrant  beams  in  darkness  thrill, 
Till  through  some  window  drift  the  rays 
Where  a  pure  heart  looks  up  and  prays ; 
And  in  that  silent  worshiper, 
The  waves  of  feeling  stir  and  stir, 


220  A    CHILD    AND    A    STAR 

And  spread  in  wider  rings  above, 
To  tremble  at  God's  heart  of  love. 
Though  it  be  kingliest  one  of  all 
His  worlds,  't  is  but  a  stony  ball : 
What  are  they  all,  from  sun  to  sun, 
But  dust  and  stubble,  when  all 's  done  ? 
Some  heavenly  grace  it  only  caught, 
When,  like  a  hint  from  home,  it  brought 
To  a  child's  heart  one  tender  thought : 
Itself  in  that  great  mystery  lost, 
As  some  bright  pebble,  idly  tost 
Into  the  darkling  sea  at  night, 
Whose  widening  ripples,  running  light, 
Go  out  into  the  infinite. 


REVERIE 

WHETHER  't  was  in  that  dome  of  evening  sky, 
So  hollow  where  the  few  great  stars  were  bright, 

Or  something  in  the  cricket's  lonely  cry, 

Or,  farther  off,  where  swelled  upon  the  night 
The  surf-beat  of  the  symphony's  delight, 

Then  died  in  crumbling  cadences  away — 

A  dream  of  Schubert's  soul,  too  sweet  to  stay : 

Whether  from  these,  or  secret  spell  within, — 
It  seemed  an  empty  waste  of  endless  sea, 

Where  the  waves  mourned  for  what  had  never  been, 
Where  the  wind  sought  for  what  could  never  be : 
Then  all  was  still,  in  vast  expectancy 

Of  powers  that  waited  but  some  mystic  sign 

To  touch  the  dead  world  to  a  life  divine. 

Me,  too,  it  filled  —  that  breathless,  blind  desire; 

And  every  motion  of  the  oars  of  thought 
Thrilled  all  the  deep  in  flashes  —  sparks  of  fire 

In  meshes  of  the  darkling  ripples  caught. 

Swiftly  rekindled,  and  then  quenched  to  naught ; 
And  the  dark  held  me ;   wish  and  will  were  none  : 
A  soul  unformed  and  void,  silent,  alone, 
And  brooded  over  by  the  Infinite  One. 


IS    IT   SAFE? 

Two  souls,  whose  bodies  sate  them  on  a  hill, 
And,  beating  idly  on  a  stone,  one  said  : 

"Yes,  light  is  good,  and  air;  but  were  it  well 

To  burst  the  walls  that  keep  the  Terror  out  ? 

Let  faith,  my  one  great  pearl,  bide  deep  in  the  dark, 

If  love,  its  lustre,  will  be  dulled  in  the  sun. 

See,  now  :   a  darkness  round  us  in  the  world, — 

This  tossing  world  that  rides  upon  the  waves ; 

A  glimmer  overhead ;  the  wrath  and  roar 

Of  awful  waters  rushing  thunderously. 

Slaves,  penned  in   the    pitch-dark  hold,  shall   we  go 

wild 
To    crush   the    planks    through,   mad    for   light   and 

air, 

And  drawn  in  the  swirling  gulf  of  that  despair  ? 
Better  to  wait,  and  guess  the  end  is  good, 
And  hope  in  some  great  angel  at  the  helm, 
Poring  on  the  mystic  words  they  dropped  — 
Those  dreaming  shipmates,  that  these  many  nights 
Have  muttered  in  their  dreams  and  prophesied." 

The  other  —  grim,  with  eyes  of  fathomless  trust  — 
Thus  spake : 


IS    IT   SAFE?  223 

"A  darkness  round  the  sparrow's  egg; 

A  warm  thin  wall ;   within  a  downy  throb  — 

A  fluttering  heart.    Strange  noises  swell,  or  swoon, 

Outside  that  amber  glimmer  arching  round. 

The  wind  rocks  bough  and  nest  and  mother  bird; 

The  timid  heart  waits  in  a  dizzy  awe ; 

All  things  seem  rushing  like  a  roaring  sea. 

It  struggles;   shall  it  dare  break  through  the  wall  — 

This  safe,  smooth  wall,  so  wisely  built  for  it  — 

And  let  the  unknown  Terror  in,  and  die  ? 

With  chip  on  chip  of  tiny  crusted  bill 

The  wall  is  cleft,  and  —  lo  !   on  perfumed  wings 

The  sun  leaps  in  with  a  laugh ;  the  dancing  leaves 

Hang  merrily  beckoning,  and  blossom-boughs 

Nod  gayly  to  the  whispering  summer  air." 


FIVE   LIVES 

FIVE  mites  of  monads  dwelt  in  a  round  drop 
That  twinkled  on  a  leaf  by  a  pool  in  the  sun. 
To  the  naked  eye  they  lived  invisible ; 
Specks,  for  a  world  of  whom  the  empty  shell 
Of  a  mustard-seed  had  been  a  hollow  sky. 

One  was  a  meditative  monad,  called  a  sage ; 
And,  shrinking  all  his  mind  within,  he  thought: 
"  Tradition,  handed  down  for  hours  and  hours, 
Tells  that  our  globe,  this  quivering  crystal  world, 
Is  slowly  dying.    What  if,  seconds  hence, 
When  I  am  very  old,  yon  shimmering  dome 
Come  drawing  down  and  down,  till  all  things  end  ?  " 
Then  with  a  weazen  smirk  he  proudly  felt 
No  other  mote  of  God  had  ever  gained 
Such  giant  grasp  of  universal  truth. 

One  was  a  transcendental  monad  ;   thin 
And  long  and  slim  in  the  mind ;  and  thus  he  mused  : 
"  Oh,  vast,  unfathomable  monad-souls  ! 
Made  in  the  image  "  —  a  hoarse  frog  croaks  from  the 

pool  — 

"  Hark  !   't  was  some  god,  voicing  his  glorious  thought 
In  thunder  music  !    Yea,  we  hear  their  voice, 


FIVE    LIVES  225 

And  we  may  guess  their  minds  from  ours,  their  work. 
Some  taste  they  have  like  ours,  some  tendency 
To  wriggle  about,  and  munch  a  trace  of  scum." 
He  floated  up  on  a  pin-point  bubble  of  gas 
That  burst,  pricked  by  the  air,  and  he  was  gone. 

One  was  a  barren-minded  monad,  called 
A  positivist ;   and  he  knew  positively  : 
"  There  is  no  world  beyond  this  certain  drop. 
Prove  me  another !    Let  the  dreamers  dream 
Of  their  faint  dreams,  and  noises  from  without, 
And  higher  and  lower ;   life  is  life  enough." 
Then  swaggering  half  a  hair's  breadth,  hungrily 
He  seized  upon  an  atom  of  bug,  and  fed. 

One  was  a  tattered  monad,  called  a  poet  ; 
And  with  shrill  voice  ecstatic  thus  he  sang: 
"  Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  lips  ! 
Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  eyes  : 
Ah,  the  little,  little,  female,  female  monad  !  " 

The  last  was  a  strong-minded  monadess, 
Who  dashed  amid  the  infusoria, 
Danced  high  and  low,  and  wildly  spun  and  dove 
Till  the  dizzy  others  held  their  breath  to  see. 

But  while  they  led  their  wondrous  little  lives 
Ionian  moments  had  gone  wheeling  by. 
The  burning  drop  had  shrunk  with  fearful  speed  ; 


226  FIVE    LIVES 

A  glistening  film  —  't  was  gone  ;  the  leaf  was  dry. 
The  little  ghost  of  an  inaudible  squeak 
Was  lost  to  the  frog  that  goggled  from  his  stone ; 
Who,  at  the  huge,  slow  tread  of  a  thoughtful  ox 
Coming  to  drink,  stirred  sideways  fatly,  plunged, 
Launched  backward  twice,  and  all  the  pool  was  still. 


THE    OPEN    WINDOW 

MY  tower  was  grimly  builded, 

With  many  a  bolt  and  bar, 
1  And  here,"  I  thought,  "  I  will  keep  my  life 
From  the  bitter  world  afar." 

Dark  and  chill  was  the  stony  floor, 

Where  never  a  sunbeam  lay, 
And  the  mould  crept  up  on  the  dreary  wall, 

With  its  ghost  touch,  day  by  day. 

One  morn,  in  my  sullen  musings, 

A  flutter  and  cry  I  heard ; 
And  close  at  the  rusty  casement 

There  clung  a  frightened  bird. 

Then  back  I  flung  the  shutter 
That  was  never  before  undone, 

And  I  kept  till  its  wings  were  rested 
The  little  weary  one. 

But  in  through  the  open  window, 

Which  I  had  forgot  to  close, 
There  had  burst  a  gush  of  sunshine 

And  a  summer  scent  of  rose. 


228  THE    OPEN    WINDOW 

For  all  the  while  I  had  burrowed 

There  in  my  dingy  tower, 
Lo  !   the  birds  had  sung  and  the  leaves  had  danced 

From  hour  to  sunny  hour. 

And  such  balm  and  warmth  and  beauty 

Came  drifting  in  since  then, 
That  window  still  stands  open 

And  shall  never  be  shut  again. 


GOOD   NEWS 

T  is  just  the  day  to  hear  good  news  : 
The  pulses  of  the  world  are  still ; 

The  eager  spring's  unfolding  hues 

Are  drowned  in  floods  of  sun,  that  fill 

The  golden  air,  and  softly  bear 

Deep  sleep  and  silence  everywhere. 
No  ripple  runs  along  that  sea 

Of  warm,  new  grass,  but  all  things  wear 
A  hush  of  calm  expectancy  : 
What  is  coming  to  Heart  and  me  ? 

The  idle  clouds,  that  work  their  wills 
In  moods  of  shadow,  on  the  hills ; 
The  dusky  hollows  in  the  trees, 
Veiled  with  their  sunlit  'broideries ; 
The  gate  that  has  not  swung,  all  day ; 

The  dappled  water's  drowsy  gleam; 
The  tap  of  hammers  far  away, 

And  distant  voices,  like  a  dream, — 
All  seem  but  visions,  and  a  tone 

Haunts  them  of  tidings  they  refuse  : 
So,  all  the  quiec  afternoon, 
Heart  and  I  we  sit  alone, 

Waiting  for  some  good  news. 


230  GOOD    NEWS 

Other  days  had  life  to  spare, 

Tasks  to  do,  and  men  to  meet, 
Trifling  wishes,  bits  of  care, 

A  hundred  ways  for  ready  feet ; 

But  this  bright  day  is  all  so  sweet, 
So  sweet,  't  is  sad  in  its  content ; 
As  if  kind  Nature,  as  she  went 
Her  happy  way,  had  paused  a  space, 
Remembered  us,  and  turned  her  face 

As  toward  some  protest  of  distress ; 
Waiting  till  we  should  find  our  place 

In  the  wide  world's  happiness. 
Nothing  stirs  but  some  vague  scent, 

A  breath  of  hidden  violet  — 
The  lonely  last  of  odors  gone  — 

Still  lingering  from  the  morning  dews, 
As  if  it  were  the  earth's  regret 
For  other  such  bright  days  that  went, 
While  Heart  and  I  we  sat  alone, 

Waiting  for  our  good  news. 

What  would  you  have  for  your  good  news, 
Foolish  Heart,  O  foolish  Heart  ? 

Some  new  freedom  to  abuse, 
Some  old  trouble  to  depart  ? 

Sudden  flash  of  snowy  wing 

Out  of  yonder  blue,  to  bring 

Messages  so  long  denied  ? 


GOOD    NEWS  231 

The  old  greeting  at  your  side, 
The  old  hunger  satisfied  ? 

Nay,  the  distant  will  not  come; 
To  deaf  ears  all  songs  are  dumb  : 

Silly  Heart,  O  silly  Heart ! 
From  within  joy  must  begin  — 

What  could  help  the  thing  thou  art  ? 
Nothing  draweth  from  afar, 
The  gods  can  give  but  what  we  are. 
Heaven  makes  the  mould,  but  soon  and  late 
Man  pours  the  metal  —  that  is  Fate. 
We  must  speak  the  word  we  wait, 

And  give  the  gift  we  die  to  own. 

Wake,  O  Heart  !    From  us  alone 
Can  come  our  best  good  news. 


SUNDAY 

NOT  a  dread  cavern,  hoar  with  'damp  and  mould, 
Where  I  must  creep,  and  in  the  dark  and  cold, 

Offer  some  awful  incense  at  a  shrine 

That  hath  no  more  divine 
Than  that 't  is  far  from  life,  and  stern,  and  old ; 

But  a  bright  hilltop  in  the  breezy  air, 

Full  of  the  morning  freshness  high  and  clear, 

Where  I  may  climb  -and  drink  the  pure,  new  day, 

And  see  where  winds  away 
The  path  that  God  would  send  me,  shining  fair. 


PEACE 

'T  is  not  in  seeking, 

'T  is  not  in  endless  striving, 

Thy  quest  is  found : 
Be  still  and  listen; 
Be  still  and  drink  the  quiet 

Of  all  around* 

Not  for  thy  crying, 

Not  for  thy  loud  beseeching, 

Will  peace  draw  near  : 
Rest  with  palms  folded ; 
Rest  with  thine  eyelids  fallen 

Lo  !   peace  is  here. 


DARE  YOU? 

DOUBTING  Thomas  and  loving  John, 
Behind  the  others  walking  on  :  — 

cc  Tell  me  now,  John,  dare  you  be 
One  of  the  minority  ? 
To  be  lonely  in  your  thought, 
Never  visited  nor  sought, 
Shunned  with  secret  shrug,  to  go 
Through  the  world  esteemed  its  foe  ; 
To  be  singled  out  and  hissed, 
Pointed  at  as  one  unblessed, 
Warned  against  in  whispers  faint, 
Lest  the  children  catch  a  taint ; 
To  bear  off  your  titles  well, — 
Heretic  and  infidel  ? 
If  you  dare,  come  now  with  me, 
Fearless,  confident,  and  free." 

"  Thomas,  do  you  dare  to  be 
Of  the  great  majority  ? 
To  be  only,  as  the  rest, 
With  Heaven's  common  comforts  blessed ; 
To  accept,  in  humble  part, 
Truth  that  shines  on  every  heart ; 


DARE    YOU  ?  235 

Never  to  be  set  on  high, 
Where  the  envious  curses  fly  ; 
Never  name  or  fame  to  find, 
Still  outstripped  in  soul  and  mind  ; 
To  be  hid,  unless  to  God, 
As  one  grass-blade  in  the  sod, 
Underfoot  with  millions  trod  ? 
If  you  dare,  come  with  us,  be 
Lost  in  love's  great  unity." 


CHRISTMAS    IN    CALIFORNIA 

CAN  this  be  Christmas  —  sweet  as  May, 
With  drowsy  sun,  and  dreamy  air, 

And  new  grass  pointing  out  the  way 
For  flowers  to  follow,  everywhere  ? 

Has  time  grown  sleepy  at  his  post, 
And  let  the  exiled  Summer  back, 

Or  is  it  her  regretful  ghost, 
Or  witchcraft  of  the  almanac  ? 

While  wandering  breaths  of  mignonette 

In  at  the  open  window  come, 
I  send  my  thoughts  afar,  and  let 

Them  paint  your  Christmas  Day  at  home. 

Glitter  of  ice,  and  glint  of  frost, 
And  sparkles  in  the  crusted  snow  ; 

And  hark  !  the  dancing  sleigh-bells,  tost 
The  faster  as  they  fainter  grow. 

The  creaking  footsteps  hurry  past ; 

The  quick  breath  dims  the  frosty  air ; 
And  down  the  crisp  road  slipping  fast 

Their  laughing  loads  the  cutters  bear. 


CHRISTMAS    IN    CALIFORNIA       237 

Penciled  against  the  cold  white  sky, 

Above  the  curling  eaves  of  snow, 
The  thin  blue  smoke  lifts  lingeringly, 

As  loath  to  leave  the  mirth  below. 


For  at  the  door  a  merry  din 

Is  heard,  with  stamp  of  feathery  feet, 
And  chattering  girls  come  storming  in, 

To  toast  them  at  the  roaring  grate. 

And  then  from  muff  and  pocket  peer, 
And  many  a  warm  and  scented  nook, 

Mysterious  little  bundles  queer, 

That,  rustling,  tempt  the  curious  look. 

Now  broad  upon  the  southern  walls 

The  mellowed  sun's  great  smile  appears, 

And  tips  the  rough-ringed  icicles 

With  sparks,  that  grow  to  glittering  tears. 

Then,  as  the  darkening  day  goes  by, 
The  wind  gets  gustier  without, 

And  leaden  streaks  are  on  the  sky, 
And  whirls  of  snow  are  all  about. 

Soon  firelight  shadows,  merry  crew, 
Along  the  darkling  walls  will  leap 

And  clap  their  hands,  as  if  they  knew 
A  thousand  things  too  good  to  keep. 


238       CHRISTMAS    IN    CALIFORNIA 

Sweet  eyes  with  home's  contentment  filled, 
As  in  the  smouldering  coals  they  peer, 

Haply  some  wondering  pictures  build 
Of  how  I  keep  my  Christmas  here. 

Before  me,  on  the  wide,  warm  bay, 

A  million  azure  ripples  run ; 
Round  me  the  sprouting  palm-shoots  lay 

Their  shining  lances  to  the  sun. 

With  glossy  leaves  that  poise  or  swing, 
The  callas  their  white  cups  unfold, 

And  faintest  chimes  of  odor  ring 

From  silver  bells  with  tongues  of  gold. 

A  languor  of  deliciousness 

Fills  all  the  sea-enchanted  clime ; 

And  in  the  blue  heavens  meet,  and  kiss, 
The  loitering  clouds  of  summer-time. 

This  fragrance  of  the  mountain  balm 
From  spicy  Lebanon  might  be  ; 

Beneath  such  sunshine's  amber  calm 
Slumbered  the  waves  of  Galilee. 

O  wondrous  gift,  in  goodness  given, 
Each  hour  anew  our  eyes  to  greet, 

An  earth  so  fair — so  close  to  Heaven, 
'T  was  trodden  by  the  Master's  feet. 


CHRISTMAS    IN    CALIFORNIA       239 

And  we  —  what  bring  we  in  return  ? 

Only  these  broken  lives,  and  lift 
Them  up  to  meet  His  pitying  scorn, 

As  some  poor  child  its  foolish  gift : 

As  some  poor  child  on  Christmas  Day 
Its  broken  toy  in  love  might  bring ; 

You  could  not  break  its  heart  and  say 
You  cared  not  for  the  worthless  thing  ? 

Ah,  word  of  trust,  His  child  !    That  child 
Who  brought  to  earth  the  life  divine, 

Tells  me  the  Father's  pity  mild 

Scorns  not  even  such  a  gift  as  mine. 

I  am  His  creature,  and  His  air 

I  breathe,  where'er  my  feet  may  stand  ; 

The  angels'  song  rings  everywhere, 
And  all  the  earth  is  Holy  Land. 


BUT    FOR    HIM 

DUMB  and  still  was  the  heart  of  man 

By  the  river  of  Time  : 

Far  it  stretched,  and  wide  and  free, 

This  rapid  river;   on  it  ran, 

Through  many  a  land  and  many  a  clime, 

On  and  on,  and  no  tide  turned, 

Down  and  down  to  Eternity. 

Dumb  and  still — 'but  the  man's  heart  yearned 
For  a  voice  to  break  the  silence  long ; 
And  there  by  the  side  of  the  heart  of  man 
Stood  the  spirit  of  Song. 

Then  the  waves  laughed 

Down  the  river  of  Time  ; 

And  the  west  wind  and  the  south  wind  sang, 

And  the  world  was  glad, 

For  now  it  had 

A  voice  to  utter,  in  jocund  chime, 

The  joy  it  quaffed 

From  the  river  of  Time. 

But  when  the  song  grew  low  and  sad, 
The  trees  drooped, 


BUT   FOR    HIM  241 

The  flowers  were  dim, 

And  a  dark  cloud  down  from  heaven  stooped ; 
The  wind  mourned,  and  tear-drops  fell ; 
And  the  world  cried,  grieving,  "  But  for  him 
We  had  not  known  but  all  was  well !  " 


NATURE   AND    HER    CHILD 

As  some  poor  child  whose  soul  is  windowless, 
Having  not  hearing,  speech,  nor  sight,  sits  lone 
In  her  dark,  silent  life,  till  cometh  one 
With  a  most  patient  heart,  who  tries  to  guess 

Some  hidden  way  to  help  her  helplessness, 

And,  yearning  for  that  spirit  shut  in  stone, 

A  crystal  that  has  never  seen  the  sun, 

Smooths  now  the  hair,  and  now  the  hand  will  press, 

Or  gives  a  key  to  touch,  then  letters  raised, 
Its  symbol ;   then  an  apple,  or  a  ring, 
And  again  letters,  so,  all  blind  and  dumb, 
We  wait;  the  kindly  smiles  of  summer  come, 
And  soft  winds  touch  our  cheek,  and  thrushes  sing; 
The  world-heart  yearns,  but  we  stand  dull  and  dazed. 


THE    FOSTER-MOTHER 

As  some  poor  Indian  woman 
A  captive  child  receives, 

And  warms  it  in  her  bosom, 
And  o'er  its  weeping  grieves ; 

And  comforts  it  with  kisses, 
And  strives  to  understand 

Its  eager,  lonely  babble, 

Fondling  the  little  hand,  — 

So  Earth,  our  foster-mother, 
Yearns  for  us,  with  her  great 

Wild  heart,  and  croons  in  murmurs 
Low,  inarticulate. 

She  knows  we  are  white  captives, 

Her  dusky  race  above, 
But  the  deep,  childless  bosom 

Throbs  with  its  brooding  love. 


THE    LINKS    OF    CHANCE 

HOLDING  apoise  in  air 

My  twice-dipped   pen, —  for  some   tense   thread   of 
thought 

Had  snapped,  —  mine  ears  were  half  aware 
Of  passing  wheels ;   eyes  saw,  but  mind  saw  not, 

My  sun-shot  linden.    Suddenly,  as  I  stare, 
Two  shifting  visions  grow  and  fade  unsought :  — • 

Noon-blaze  :   the  broken  shade 
Of  ruins  strown.    Two  Tartar  lovers  sit 

She  gazing  on  the  ground,  face  turned,  afraid ; 
And  he,  at  her.    Silence  is  all  his  wit. 

She  stoops,  picks  up  a  pebble  of  green  jade 
To  toss ;  they  watch  its  flight,  unheeding  it. 

Ages  have  rolled  away ; 
And  round  the  stone,  by  chance,  if  chance  there  be, 

Sparse   soil   has   caught ;   a   seed,   wind-lodged  one 

day, 
Grown  grass;  shrubs  sprung  ;  at  last  a  tufted  tree. 

Lo  !   over  its  snake  root  yon  conquering  Bey 
Trips  backward,  fighting —  and  half  Asia  free  ! 


TWO    VIEWS    OF  IT 

O  WORLD,  O  glorious  world,  good-by  !  " 
Time  but  to  think  it  —  one  wild  cry 
Unuttered,  a  heart-wrung  farewell 
To  sky  and  wood  and  flashing  stream, 
All  gathered  in  a  last  swift  gleam, 
As  the  crag  crumbled,  and  he  fell. 

But  lo  !   the  thing  was  wonderful ! 
After  the  echoing  crash,  a  lull : 
The  great  fir  on  the  slope  below 
Had  spread  its  mighty  mother-arm, 
And  caught  him,  springing  like  a  bow 
Of  steel,  and  lowered  him  safe  from  harm. 

'T  was  but  an  instant's  dark  and  daze  : 
Then,  as  he  felt  each  limb  was  sound, 
And  slowly  from  the  swooning  haze 
The  dizzy  trees  stood  still  that  whirled, 
And  the  familiar  sky  and  ground, 
There  grew  with  them  across  his  brain 
A  dull  regret :   "  So,  world,  dark  world, 
You  are  come  back  again  !  " 


TO   A  FACE   AT  A   CONCERT 

WHEN  the  low  music  makes  a  dusk  of  sound 

About  us,  and  the  viol  or  far-off  horn 
Swells  out  above  it  like  a  wind  forlorn, 
That  wanders  seeking  something  never  found, 

o  O  / 

What  phantom  in  your  brain,  on  what  dim  ground, 
Traces  its  shadowy  lines  ?    What  vision,  born 
Of  unfulfillment,  fades  in  mere  self-scorn, 
Or  grows,  from  that  still  twilight  stealing  round  ? 

When  the  lids  droop  and  the  hands  lie  unstrung, 
Dare  one  divine  your  dream,  while  the  chords  weave 
Their  cloudy  woof  from  key  to  key,  and  die,  — 

Is  it  one  fate  that,  since  the  world  was  young, 
Has  followed  man,  and  makes  him  half  believe 
The  voice  of  instruments  a  human  cry  ? 


THE   THRUSH 

THE  thrush  sings  high  on  the  topmost  bough,— 
Low,  louder,  low  again ;  and  now 
He  has  changed  his  tree,  —  you  know  not  how, 
For  you  saw  no  flitting  wing. 

All  the  notes  of  the  forest-throng, 
Flute,  reed,  and  string,  are  in  his  song ; 
Never  a  fear  knows  he,  nor  wrong, 
Nor  a  doubt  of  anything. 

Small  room  for  care  in  that  soft  breast ; 
All  weather  that  comes  is  to  him  the  best, 
While  he  sees  his  mate  close  on  her  nest, 
And  the  woods  are  full  of  spring. 

He  has  lost  his  last  year's  love,  I  know, — 
He,  too, —  but  't  is  little  he  keeps  of  woe  ; 
For  a  bird  forgets  in  a  year,  and  so 
No  wonder  the  thrush  can  sing. 


EVERY-DAY   LIFE 

THE  marble-smith,  at  his  morning  task 
Merrily  glasses  the  blue-veined  stone, 

With  stout  hands  circling  smooth.    You  ask, 
"  What  will  it  be,  when  it  is  done  ?  " 

u  A  shaft  for  a  young  girl's  grave."    Both  hands 

Go  back  with  a  will  to  their  sinewy  play  ; 
And  he  sings  like  a  bird,  as  he  swaying  stands, 
A  rollicking  stave  of  Love  and  May. 


AT   LAST 

FROM  all  the  long,  bright  daytime's  restlessness, 
Through  starlight's  broken  promise  of  redress, 
From  eyes  that  care  not,  hands  that  cannot  bless, 
Down  all  the  wintry,  withered,  endless  train 
Of  years  that  flowered  in  hope  to  fruit  in  pain, 
I  claim  no  happiness. 

Sweet  soul,  that  art  so  rich  in  blessed  store, 

See  all  my  hungry  heart,  my  need  is  sore ; 

Oh,  if  thou  holdest  it,  withhold  no  more  ! 

Let  not  that  wandering  hope,  that  blind  with  tears, 
Comes  down  to  me  through  all  the  desert  years, 

Drop  dead,  even  at  the  door. 

What  wistful  thought  thou  darest  not  confess 

Shadows  thy  dawn-lit  eyes  with  tenderness  ? 

What  timid  stir  as  of  a  mute  caress 

Dares  only  thrill  thy  trembling  finger-tips  — 
What  word  waits,  dumb  and  quivering,  at  thy  lips  ? 

O  Love,  my  happiness  ! 


FOREST    HOME 

0  FOREST-MOTHER,  I  have  stayed 
Too  long  away  from  thee ; 

Let  me  come  home  for  these  few  hours 
That  from  the  world  are  free. 

Oh  !   mother,  they  have  saddened  me 

With  all  their  foolish  din  ; 
Lowly  I  knock  at  thy  green  gate ; 

Dear  mother,  let  me  in. 

Down  where  the  tumbled  towers  of  rock 
Their  perilous  stairs  have  made, 

Holding  the  tough  young  hemlock  boughs 
For  slender  balustrade, 

1  find  my  pleasant  home,  far  off 

From  all  men  say  and  do  — 
Far  as  the  world  from  which  we  flash 
When  some  swift  dream  breaks  through. 

Again  the  grave  old  hemlock  trees 
Stretch  down  their  feathery  palms, 

And  murmur  up  against  the  blue 
Their  solemn  breath  of  psalms  ; 


FOREST    HOME  251 

And  here  my  little  brothers  are, 

The  sparrow  and  the  bee, 
The  wren  that  almost  used  to  dare 

To  perch  upon  my  knee ; 

The  dust  of  sunshine  under  foot, 

The  darkness  over  head, 
The  sliding  gleam  that  swings  along 

The  unseen  spider's  thread  ; 

The  low  arched  path  beneath  the  boughs, 

And  half-way  down  it  laid 
A  falling  fringe  of  sun-lit  leaves 

Against  the  roof  of  shade  ; 

The  sunshine  clasping  round  both  sides 

A  broken  cedar  old, 
Rimming  its  shaft  so  dark  and  wet 

In  green  and  massy  gold, 

In  hollows  where  the  evening  glooms 

Rest  drowsily  all  day, 
In  the  blue  shadows  of  the  pines, 

Sprinkled  with  golden  spray. 

Dimpled  red  cheeks  of  berries  hid 

A  wary  eye  discerns, 
And  timid  little  pale-faced  flowers 

Peep  through  the  latticed  ferns. 


252  FOREST    HOME 

O  Mother,  they  are  proud  and  blind 
Who  from  all  these  would  stay  ; 

Yet  do  not  scorn  them  un forgiven, 
But  woo  them  day  by  day. 

Let  all  sweet  winds  from  all  fair  dells, 
And  whispering  breath  of  pine, 

Pursue  and  lure  the  wanderer 
Back  to  thy  rest  divine. 

If  I  must  build  in  Babel  still 
Till  that  last  summons  come, 

Oh  !  call  me  when  the  hour  is  near, 
And  let  me- die  at  home. 

JT  were  sweet,  I  know,  to  stay ;  but  so 
'T  were  sweetest  to  depart, 

Thy  cool,  still  hand  upon  my  face, 
Thy  silence  in  my  heart. 


THE  SINGER'S  CONFESSION 

ONCE  he  cried  to  all  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  tossing  grain  and  tufted  grasses  : 
Take  my  message  —  tell  it  to  my  brothers  ! 
Stricken  mute  I  cannot  speak  my  message. 
When  the  evening  wind  comes  back  from  ocean, 
Singing  surf-songs,  to  Earth's  fragrant  bosom, 
And  the  beautiful  young  human  creatures 
Gather  at  the  mother  feet  of  Nature, 
Gazing  with  their  pure  and  wistful  faces, 
Tell  the  old  heroic  human  story. 
When  they  weary  of  the  wheels  of  science, 
Grinding,  jangling  their  harsh  dissonances,  — 
Stones  and  bones  and  alkalis  and  atoms, — 
Sing  to  them  of  human  hope  and  passion  ; 
And  the  soul  divine,  whose  incarnation, 
Born  of  love  —  alas!   my  message  stumbles, 
Faints  on  faltering  lips  :   Oh,  speak  it  for  me !  " 

Then  a  hush  fell ;   and  around  about  him 
Suddenly  he  felt  the  mighty  shadow 
Of  the  hills,  like  grave  and  silent  pity; 
And,  as  one  who  sees  without  regarding, 
The  wide  wind  went  over  him  and  left  him, 
And  the  brook,  repeating  low,  "  His  message  !  " 
Babbled,  as  it  fled,  a  quiet  laughter. 


254        THE    SINGER'S    CONFESSION 

What  was  he,  that  he  had  touched  their  message  — 
Theirs,  who  had  been  chanting  it  forever  : 
With  whose  organ-tones  the  human  spirit 
Had  eternally  been  overflowing  ! 
Then,  with  shame  that  stung  in  cheek  and  forehead, 
Slow  he  crept  away. 

And  now  he  listens, 

Mute  and  still,  to  hear  them  tell  their  message  — 
All  the  holy  hills  and  sacred  waters  ; 
When  the  sea-wind  swings  its  evening  censer, 
Till  the  misty  incense  hides  the  altar 
And  the  long-robed  shadows,  lowly  kneeling. 


A  MYTH  OF  FANTASY  AND  FIRST  LOVE 

HID  in  the  silence  of  a  forest  deep 

Dwelt  a  fair  soul  in  flesh  that  was  as  fair. 

Over  her  nimble  hands  her  floating  hair 

Made  waving  shadows,  while  her  eyes  did  keep 

The  winding  track  of  weaving  intricate. 

Early  at  morn  and  at  the  evening  late, 

A  robe  of  shimmering  silk  she  wove  with  care. 

Hour  after  hour,  though  might  she  smile  or  weep, 

Still  ran  the  golden  or  the  glooming  thread. 

Waking  she  wove  that  which  she  dreamed  asleep, 

Till  many  a  noon  had  bloomed  above  her  tender  head. 

Now  when  the  time  was  full,  the  robe  was  done. 
Light  she  would  hold  it  in  her  loving  hand, 
And  with  wide  eyes  of  wonder  she  would  stand 
For  half  the  day,  and  turn  it  to  the  sun, 
To  see  its  gold  lights  shift  and  melt  away 
And  grow  again,  and  flash  in  myriad  play. 
Or  white  it  glimmered  in  each  glossy  strand, 
For  half  the  night  she  held  it  to  the  moon ; 
Or,  sitting  with  it  sleeked  across  her  knee, 
She  would  bend  down  above  it,  and  would  croon 
The  strangest  bits  of  broken   songs  that  e'er  could 
be. 


256       FANTASY   AND    FIRST   LOVE 

Then  came  the  dawn  when  (so  her  doom  had  said) 
Out  through  the  shadowy  forest  she  must  go, 
And  follow  whatsoever  chance  might  show, 
Or  whither  any  sound  her  footsteps  led ; 
Taking  for  wayward  guides  whatever  stirred  — 
The  rustling  squirrel,  or  the  startled  bird, 
Their  pathless  ways  pursuing,  fast  or  slow, 
Until  the  forest's  border  she  should  tread. 
There  whosoever  met  her,  she  must  fling 
That  woven  wonder  blindly  on  his  head, 
And  see  in  him  her  only  lord  and  king. 

Dim  was  the  morn,  and  dew-wet  was  the  way  : 

Aloft  the  ancient  cedars  lifted  high 

Their  jagged  crosses  on  the  dawn-streaked  sky : 

Below,  the  gossamers  were  glimmering  gray 

Along  her  path,  and  many  a  silver  thread 

Caught  glancing  lights,  in  floating  curves  o'erhead ; 

And  little  dew-showers  pattered  far  and  nigh, 

Where  wakened  thrushes  stirred  the  sprinkled  spray, 

For  hours  she  wandered  where  her  footsteps  led, 

Till  a  long  lance  of  open  sunlight  lay 

As  red  as  gold  upon  her  lifted,  eager  head. 

Ah,  woe  for  her  that  mortal  doom  must  be ! 

Just  then  the  prince  came  spurring,  fair  and  young, 

With  heart  as  merry  as  the  song  he  sung : 

But  as  she  started  forward,  at  her  knee 

A  cringing  beggar  from  the  weeds  close  by 


FANTASY   AND    FIRST    LOVE       257 

Holds  up  his  cap  for  alms,  with  whining  cry. 
Swift  over  him  the  lifted  robe  was  flung : 
Henceforth,  his  slave,  forever  she  must  see 
All  princely  beauty  in  that  brutal  face  — 
Heaven  send  that  by  some  deeper  witchery 
His  swinish  soul  through  her  may  gain  some  touch  of 
grace. 


THE    DEPARTURE    OF   THE    PILOT 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  PRESIDENT  DANIEL  C. 
OILMAN  FROM  CALIFORNIA 


Ye  university  is 
likened  by  ye 
poet  to  a  ship. 


SLENDER  spars  and  snowy  wings, 

Arrowy  hull  that  cleaves  the  foam,  — 

See  !  the  good  ship  grandly  swings 
Forth  to  seek  her  ocean  home. 


She  is  in  peril  of 
legislatures 


and  of  ye  public. 


But  D.  C.  G. 


Thro'  the  narrow  harbor-gate, 

Past  the  rocks  that  guard  the  bay, 

Towards  where  friendlier  billows  wait, 
Well  she  holds  her  stately  way. 

Angry  now  the  breakers  are  ; 

Gleam  their  white  teeth  in  the  sun, 
Where  along  the  shallow  bar, 

Fierce  and  high  their  ridges  run. 

But  the  pilot-captain,  lo  ! 

How  serene  in  strength  is  he  ! 
Blithe  as  winds  that  dawnward  blow, 

Fresh  and  fearless  as  the  sea. 


THE   DEPARTURE   OF  THE   PILOT    259 

Now  the  shifting  breezes  fail, 

Baffling  gusts  arise  and  die, 
Shakes  and  shudders  every  sail, 

Hark !  the  rocks  are  roaring  nigh. 

But  the  pilot  keeps  her  keel 

Where  the  current  runneth  fair, 
Deftly  turns  the  massive  wheel 

Light  as  though  't  were  hung  in  air. 

Hark  !  the  bar  on  either  side  ! 
Hiss  of  foam,  and  crash  of  crest, 

r~  i-          r  11  i  i-j      into  open  water. 

Trampling  feet,  and  shouts  —  they  glide 
Safely  out  on  ocean's  breast. 


Then  the  Pilot  gives  his  hand 

To  his  brother,  close  beside  :  He  addresseth 

"  Now  't  is  thine  to  take  command, 
I  must  back  at  turn  of  tide." 

Then  the  brother-captains  true 

Grasp  each  other  by  the  hand, 
Bidding  cheerily  adieu 

But  a  moment  as  they  stand. 

Something  in  the  elder's  eye 

Glimmers  —  is  it  but  the  spray  ?  And  j.  Le  c. 

o  •   •  1  J    •      i  -i_  speaketh 

Something  —  could  it  be  a  sigh,  to 

Or  a  breeze  that  died  away  ? 


260    THE   DEPARTURE   OF  THE   PILOT 

And  quoth  he  :  "  O  brother  brave, 
D.  c.  G.  Wisely  thou  hast  steered  and  well, 

Now  all  fair  are  wind  and  wave, — 
Come  and  tarry  with  us  still." 

"  Wave  and  wind  at  last  are  fair, 
inviteth  Rosy-bright  the  new-born  day, 

Hope  and  faith  are  in  the  air, — 
Come  and  sail  with  us  for  aye  ! " 

But  the  pilot's  shallop-prow 
But  the  overland          Chafes  against  the  vessel's  side: 

locomotive 

snorteth       "  Nay,  true  heart,  thy  wisdom  now 

Shall  the  good  ship's  fortunes  guide." 

u  On  the  morrow  they  shall  launch 
and  Yonder  from  the  Eastern  shore, 

Johns  Hopkins 

must  be  begun.      Yet  another  vessel,  staunch, 

Sound  as  e'er  was  built  before. 


"  Hopes  and  prayers  upon  her  wait  : 

Her  deep  bosom,  grand  and  free, 
Bears  a  wealth  of  mystic  freight  : 
I  must  guide  her  to  the  sea. 

u  But  upon  our  voyage  far 


after  truth        Since  the  same  pure  polar  star 

and  progress 

Shines  to  beacon  both  our  ways. 


THE   DEPARTURE   OF  THE   PILOT    261 


"  Far  away  where  favoring  gales 

Blow  from  many  a  spicy  beach, 
We  shall  see  our  shining  sails 
Nodding  friendly,  each  to  each. 

"  Many  a  morning  that  shall  dawn 

With  its  radiant  prophecy, 
Still  shall  greet  us  sailing  on  — 
Comrades  on  the  glorious  sea." 


the  ships  shall 
sail  in 
sight  & 


be  of  ye 

same  fleet. 


Amen. 


AN   ANSWER 

TO  THE  YALE  CLASS  OF   1861,   READ  JUNE   28,   1876 

DEAR  friends,  ask  not  from  me  a  song : 
The  singing  days  to  spring  belong, 
And  in  our  hearts,  as  in  this  clime, 
Spring  has  long  turned  to  summer-time. 
The  morning  dreams  have  fled  afar, 
When  every  dew-drop  held  a  star : 
The  broad,  full  noon  is  here  —  till  even 
The  stars  have  drawn  away  to  heaven. 

With  you  't  is  June ;  and  rosebuds  blush, 
And  golden  sunsets  glow  and  flush : 
While  every  breeze,  with  Psyche  wings, 
Wafts  promise  of  immortal  things  ; 
And  every  shower  of  perfumed  rain 
Brightens  to  rainbow  hope  again. 
'T  is  meet  that  in  that  fragrant  air 
Your  songs  defy  old  Time  and  care, 
While  overhead  the  elms  shall  swing, 
And  hand  to  hand  old  friendships  cling: 
Ah,  sweet  and  strong  your  voices  ring  ! 


AN    ANSWER  263 

But  here,  upon  the  planet's  verge, 

The  grassy  velvet  turns  to  serge  : 

No  shower  has  wet  the  hillocks  sere 

Since  April  shed  her  parting  tear. 

The  poppies  on  the  hill  are  dead, 

And  the  wild  oat  is  harvested  : 

The  canyon's  flowers  are  brown  with  seed, 

And  only  blooms  some  wayside  weed. 

No  leafy  elms  their  shadows  throw, 

No  moist  and  odorous  breezes  blow ; 

But  all  the  bare,  brown  hills  along 

The  ocean  wind  sweeps  sad  and  strong. 

Then  ask  not,  friends,  from  me  a  song ! 

Yet  think  not  that  this  sombre  strain 
Would,  dear  old  friends,  of  fate  complain. 
Though  spring  has  gone,  and  singing  days, 
The  sunshine,  and  the  starshine,  stays. 
If  no  more  bloom  the  hillsides  yield, 
The  tented  sheaves  are  in  the  field  : 
The  tawny  slopes  are  sending  down 
Their  harvest  loads  to  farm  and  town. 
If  early  spring-time  fled  with  tears, 
Yet  earlier  harvest-time  appears. 
And  if  far  off,  as  in  a  dream, 
I  see  your  merry  faces  beam, 
And  if  far  off,  as  through  the  deep, 
I  hear  your  songs  their  cadence  keep, 
I  know  't  were  childishness  to  weep. 


264  AN    ANSWER 

For  all  the  time  is  grand  indeed ! 

And  whether  June  bring  flower  or  seed  — 

And  whether  softest  breezes  blow, 

Or  ocean's  organ-music  flow, 

Not  backward  only  turn  our  eyes, 

But  forward,  where  along  the  skies 

The  brighter  dawn-lights  break  and  rise. 

For  all  the  love  these  years  have  stored 

Wells  up  to  manlier  deed  and  word. 

The  nerveless  grasp  of  girlish  youth 

Grips  now  the  banner  staff"  of  truth  ; 

The  careless  song,  half  sung,  rings  out 

Changed  to  a  mighty  battle-shout ; 

And  we  that  kept  our  holiday 

With  wine  and  fragrant  mists  and  play, 

Shall  yet,  perchance,  even  such  as  we, 

Fulfill  our  half-heard  prophecy. 

The  vision  we  but  half  divined, 

Wrought  out  with  steadier  heart  and  mind, 

Shall  bless  the  world  of  humankind. 


IN  MEMORY   OF   A    MUSICIAN 
DIED  SAN  FRANCISCO,  OCTOBER,   1878 

DEAD  !    And  the  echoes  dumb, 
That  thrilled  our  very  inmost  soul  to  hear : 
And  now  through  all  the  rich  autumnal  air, 

His  city's  hum 
Murmurs  in  fitful  throbs,  like  dying  beat 

Of  funeral  drum  ! 

Hark  !   't  is  the  voice  of  song  — 
No  dirge,  no  requiem  chant  of  hopeless  woe, 
With  tramp  of  dull,  unwilling  footsteps  slow  : 

Nay,  that  would  wrong 
The  cheery  life  that  ever  was  so  sweet, 

Tender  and  strong  : 

But  waves  along  the  shore, 
That  plash  and  sing  like  little  children's  mirth, 
Whose  faces  he  loved  best  of  all  the  earth, 

And  winds  that  o'er 
This  lonely  world  still  blow,  never  to  greet 

His  music  more  — 

Those  waves  and  winds  I  hear, 
And  whispering  trees,  and  note  of  happy  bird, 


266       IN    MEMORY    OF   A    MUSICIAN 

And  Nature's  every  mellow  tone  is  heard, 

Singing  full  clear 
The  old  immortal  harmonies  his  feet 

Followed  so  near. 

Still,  Nature,  still  repeat 
Thy  purest  symphonies  for  his  pure  sake, 
Whose  heart  love's  grandest  victory  could  take 

From  love's  defeat ; 

Whose  life  was   bruised,  like   some  sweet   herb,  to 
make 

All  others  sweet. 


A   DREAM   WITHIN   A   DREAM 

YALE  CLUB,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  DECEMBER  12,   1878 

THE  green  was  all  with  shadows  blent ; 

The  night-wind,  surf-like,  here  and  there 
Broke  softly  on  the  elms  and  sent 

Its  spray  of  whispers  down  the  air. 

The  empty  streets,  long  silent,  hid 
Beneath  their  leafy  arches  lay : 

Only  a  sleepy  cricket  chid, 
Or  distant  footfall  died  away. 

Our  college  feast  had  broken  up ; 

No  banquet  rich,  no  spices  rare, 
No  gleam  of  wine  from  jeweled  cup, 

But  youth,  immortal  youth  was  there. 

JT  was  boyish  talk,  —  the  race  crew's  fate, 
The  jovial  tutor's  joke  and  grin, 

And  who  would  conquer  in  debate, 
And  who  would  wear  the  mystic  pin. 

No  clutching  Past  our  spirits  held  : 

Our  eyes  looked  forward  ;   it  was  spring  : 

The  fresh  sap  stirred,  the  new  buds  swelled 
No  wonder  we  could  feast  and  sing. 


268     A    DREAM    WITHIN    A    DREAM 

The  small  puns  crackled,  and  ere  long 

The  deeper  thoughts  would  come  and  go ; 

And  evermore  some  burst  of  song 

Startled  the  slumbering  rooms  below. 

And  when  we  parted  —  not  too  soon  — 
With  shouted  calls  from  mate  to  mate, 

We  laughed  to  see  the  tipsy  moon 
Rise  staring,  crooked-faced,  so  late. 

We  strolled,  my  friend  and  I,  to  where 
The  street  becomes  a  wooded  lane : 

Talking  of  many  a  fancy  fair, 

And  all  the  blossoms  of  the  brain. 

Our  life  should  break,  we  said,  its  bars 
And  we  would  sail  the  seas,  and  there 

Beneath  that  western  crown  of  stars 
The  golden  future  we  would  share. 

The  sleepy  elms  were  breathing  low, 
Phantoms  their  hollow  arches  filled  ; 

The  withered  moon  lay  faint  and  low ; 
Fantastic  shadows  stirred  and  stilled. 

But  on  I  wandered,  now  alone, 

And  where  the  wooded  lane  grew  steep 

Sat  drowsing :   the  weird  dark  had  grown 
A  part  of  me ;   I  seemed  to  sleep. 


A   DREAM    WITHIN   A   DREAM     269 

And  all  the  present  years  were  dead  — 
Their  stormy  joys,  their  passions  sweet; 

And  youth  and  winged  hope  were  fled 
Adown  the  dark  with  silent  feet. 

The  night  wind  seemed  more  chill  to  be ; 

The  hills  rose  strangely  bare  and  round : 
A  great  bay  narrowed  to  the  sea 

Beyond  the  city's  glimmering  mound. 

My  brain  was  numb,  my  heart  was  lead ; 

Dear  faces  faded  far  and  cold ; 
Some  were  forgotten,  some  were  dead, 

And  all  were  scattered,  chill,  and  old. 

That  feast  night  'mid  the  floating  trees 

Seemed  ages  in  the  silent  past  j 
Those  friendships,  darling  memories,— 

Too  pure,  too  warm,  too  sweet  to  last. 

Among  the  hillslopes,  wan  and  sad, 
The  marbles  of  a  graveyard  gleamed, 

And  ghosts  were  near,  and  I  was  glad 
Even  in  my  dream  to  think  I  dreamed. 

But  still  I  thought  I  dreamed  :   the  west 
Grew  gray,  and  troops  of  fog  came  in, 

Stalking  across  the  city's  crest 

Like  ghastly  shapes  of  joy  and  sin. 


270     A    DREAM    WITHIN    A    DREAM 

The  white  dawn  seemed  to  grow  more  cold ; 

Its  bitter  breath  was  freezing  me  : 
I  shivered,  and  awoke  —  behold  ! 

The  bare,  round  hills,  the  muffled  sea. 

The  mountain  peak  beyond  the  bay, 
Stern,  silent,  as  the  vanquished  are ; 

Round  him  the  folded  shadows  lay, 
And  on  his  forehead  was  a  scar. 

The  vision  I  had  found  so  drear 

Waked  with  me,  and  is  with  me  still ; 

The  future  of  my  dream  was  here, 
And  I  had  slept  on  Berkeley  hill. 

I  had  arisen  before  unclosed 

The  sleeping  orient's  earliest  gleam, 

And  climbed,  and  sat,  or  mused  and  dozed, 
And  dreamed  this  dream  within  a  dream. 

But  now  the  full  dawn  comes  :   the  sun 
Breaks  through  the  canyon  with  his  gold, 

The  jocund  lark-songs  have  begun, 

The  mountain's  brow  is  clear  and  bold. 

The  good  salt  sea  wind  blows;   the  mist 

Unveils  the  city  shining  fair; 
Its  floating  shreds  the  sun  has  kissed 

To  pearls  that  fleck  the  upper  air. 


A   DREAM   WITHIN   A    DREAM     271 

So  drift  away  the  moods  of  night, 
So  shines  the  manlier  purpose  free; 

The  breezy  Present  wakes  in  light, 
And  plans  the  richer  world  to  be. 


A   RESTING-PLACE 

A  SEA  of  shade  ;  with  hollow  heights  above, 
Where  floats  the  redwood's  airy  roof  away, 

Whose  feathery  lace  the  drowsy  breezes  move, 
And  softly  through  the  azure  windows  play : 
No  nearer  stir  than  yon  white  cloud  astray, 

No  closer  sound  than  sob  of  distant  dove. 

I  only  live  as  the  de,ep  forest's  swoon 

Dreams  me  amid  its  dream ;   for  all  things  fade 

Nor  pulse  of  mine  disturbs  the  unconscious  noon. 
Even  love  and  hope  are  still  —  albeit  they  made 
My  heart  beat  yesterday  —  in  slumber  laid, 

Like  yon  dim  ghost  that  last  night  was  the  moon. 

Only  the  bending  grass,  grown  gray  and  sere, 
Nods  now  and  then,  where  at  my  feet  it  swings, 

Pleased  that  another  like  itself  is  here, 

Unseen  among  the  mighty  forest  things  — 
Another  fruitless  life,  that  fading  clings 

To  earth  and  autumn  days  in  doubt  and  fear. 

Dream  on,  O  wood  !   O  wind,  stay  in  thy  west, 
Nor  wake  the  shadowy  spirit  of  the  fern, 


A   RESTING-PLACE  273 

Asleep  along  the  fallen  pine-tree's  breast ! 

That,  till  the  sun  go  down,  and  night-stars  burn, 
And  the  chill  dawn-breath  from  the  sea  return, 

Tired  earth  may  taste  heaven's  honey-dew  of  rest. 


THE    MYSTERY 

I  NEVER  know  why  't  is  I  love  thee  so  : 
I  do  not  think  't  is  that  thine  eyes  for  me 
Grow  bright  as  sudden  sunshine  on  the  sea ; 
Nor  for  thy  rose-leaf  lips,  or  breast  of  snow, 
Or  voice  like  quiet  waters  where  they  flow. 

So  why  I  love  thee  well  I  cannot  tell : 
Only  it  is  that  when  thou  speak'st  to  me 
'T  is  thy  voice  speaks,  and  when  thy  face  I  see 
It  is  thy  face  I  see ;  and  it  befell 
Thou  wert,  and  I  was,  and  I  love  thee  well. 


THE    FOOL'S    PRAYER 

THE  royal  feast  was  done ;  the  King 

Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 
Arid  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer !  " 

» 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before  ; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool ; 

His  pleading  voice  arose  :  "  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 

From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool ; 
The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  :   but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 

Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay ; 
'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 


276  THE    FOOL'S    PRAYER 

u  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

u  The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept  — 

Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung  ? 
The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung  ? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all  j 
But  for  our  blunders  —  oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes 'of  heaven  we  fall. 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  !  " 

The  room  was  hushed  ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 


OPPORTUNITY 

THIS  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream  :  — 

There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain ; 

And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 

A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 

Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.    A  prince's  banner 

Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 

And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel  < — 

That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears,  —  but  this 

Blunt  thing —  !  "  he  snapt  and  flung  it  from  his  hand, 

And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 

And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 

Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 

And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle-shout 

Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 

And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 


AN   ASPIRATION 
YALE  CLUB,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  DECEMBER   n,   1879 

LET  us  return  once  more,  we  said, 
And  greet  the  saintly  mother  Yale ; 

That  gray  and  venerable  head, 

That  wrinkled  brow,  time-worn  and  pale. 

So  from  afar  we  fared,  and  found 

Her  children  thronging  round  her  feet  : 

The  summer  all  her  elms  had  crowned, 
The  dappled  grass  was  cool  and  sweet. 

But  lo !  no  ancient  dame  was  there, 

With  tottering  step  and  waning  powers  : 

Our  maiden  mother,  fresh  and  fair, 

Stood  queenlike  'mid  her  trees  and  towers. 

Men  may  grow  old :  Time's  tremulous  hands 

Still  hasten  the  spent  glass  ;   but  she  — 
"  Mewing  her  mighty  youth  "  she  stands, 
And  wears  her  laurels  royally. 

From  olden  fountain-wells  that  flow 
Down  every  sacred  height  of  truth, 

As  pure  as  fire,  as  cold  as  snow, 

Her  lips  have  quaffed  immortal  youth. 


AN   ASPIRATION  279 

Her  feet  in  fields  of  amaranth  tread, 

Lilies  of  every  golden  clime 
Are  in  her  hand,  and  round  her  head 

The  aureole  of  the  coming  time. 

Ah,  maiden-mother,  might  there  rise 
On  these  far  shores  a  power  like  thine, 

With  Learning's  sceptre,  mild  and  wise, 
And  all  the  sister  Arts  benign  ! 

It  matters  little  that  it  bear 

The  name  that  Cloyne's  great  bishop  bore, 
If  only  it  might  bring  the  fair 

Fulfillment  of  his  thought  of  yore  ; 

If  somewhere,  on  the  hill  or  plain, 
By  forest's  calm,  or  quickening  sea, 

Or  where  the  town's  electric  brain 
With  silent  lightnings  flashes  free, — 

If  one  like  Yale  among  us  stood, 

To  nourish  at  her  ample  breast 
And  feed  with  her  ambrosial  food 

The  infant  vigor  of  the  West. 

The  smitten  rocks  pour  forth  in  vain 

Their  Midas-streams  :  when  shall  be  wrought 

From  out  our  store  some  classic  fane, 
Some  cloistered  home  of  finer  thought  ? 


280  AN    ASPIRATION 

Ofttimes  a  troubled  mood  will  bring 

The  vision  of  a  land  forlorn, 
Where  gold  is  prophet,  priest,  and  king, 

And  wisdom  is  a  name  of  scorn ; 

Whose  treasures  build  the  gambler's  halls, 
Whose  tinsel  follies  flaunt  the  skies, 

Whose  horses  feed  in  marble  stalls, 

While  Learning  begs  for  crumbs,  and  dies. 

The  waves  that  throb  from  Asia's  breast 
Prophetic  murmur  on  our  shore  : 

Barbarian  throngs  from  East,  from  West  — 
Who  knows  what  fortunes  are  in  store  ? 

Nay,  thou  foreboding  mood,  be  still ! 

And  let  a  farther-sighted  pen 
Point  out  the  better  fate  that  Will 

And  Hope  make  possible  to  men. 

What  man  has  done,  still  man  can  do  : 
Of  slumbering  force  there  is  no  dearth ; 

And  beckoning  hands  and  hearts  may  woo 
The  banished  Muses  back  to  earth. 

We,  too,  those  fountain-wells  have  known, 
And  quaffed  the  life  no  years  destroy ; 

And  under  every  snowiest  crown 

Still  dreams  and  yearns  the  immortal  Boy. 


AN   ASPIRATION  281 

Nor  shall  that  yearning  be  in  vain  : 
With  boyish  hope  but  manlier  will 

We  dream  our  rosy  dreams  again, 
And  build  our  airy  castles  still. 

But  not  of  passion's  luring  wraith, 
Nor  selfish  fancy's  empty  foam ; 

Of  steadfast  brother-love,  in  faith, 
We  build  the  better  time  to  come. 


THE   NORTH    WIND 

ALL  night,  beneath  the  flashing  hosts  of  stars, 
The  North  poured  forth  the  passion  of  its  soul 
In  mighty  longings  for  the  tawny  .South, 
Sleeping  afar  among  her  orange-blooms. 
All  night,  through  the  deep  canon's  organ-pipes, 
Swept  down  the  grand  orchestral  harmonies 
Tumultuous,  till  the  hills'  rock  buttresses 
Trembled  in  unison. 

The  sun  has  risen, 

But  still  the  storming  sea  of  air  beats  on, 
And  o'er  the  broad  green  slopes  a  flood  of  light 
Comes  streaming  through  the  heavens  like  a  wind, 
Till  every  leaf  and  twig  becomes  a  lyre 
And  thrills  with  vibrant  splendor. 

Down  the  bay 

The  furrowed  blue,  save  that  't  is  starred  with  foam, 
Is  bare  and  empty  as  the  sky  of  clouds ; 
For  all  the  little  sails,  that  yesterday 
Flocked  past  the  islands,  now  have  furled  their  wings, 
And  huddled  frightened  at  the  wharves — just  as, 
A  moment  since,  a  flock  of  twittering  birds 
Whirled  through  the  almond-trees  like  scattered  leaves, 
And  hid  beyond  the  hedge. 


THE   NORTH    WIND  283 

How  the  old  oaks 

Stand  stiffly  to  it,  and  wrestle  with  the  storm  ! 
While  the  tall  eucalyptus'  plumy  tops 
Tumble  and  toss  and  stream  with  quivering  light. 
Hark !   when  it  lulls  a  moment  at  the  ear, 
The  fir-trees  sing  their  sea-song  :  —  now  again 
The  roar  is  all  about  us  like  a  flood ; 
And  like  a  flood  the  fierce  light  shines,  and  burns 
Away  all  distance,  till  the  far  blue  ridge, 
That  rims  the  ocean,  rises  close  at  hand, 
And  high,  Prometheus-like,  great  Tamalpais 
Lifts  proudly  his  grand  front,  and  bears  his  scar, 
Heaven's  scath  of  wrath,  defiant  like  a  god. 

I  thank  thee,  glorious  wind  !    Thou  bringest  me 
Something  that  breathes  of  mountain  crags  and  pines, 
Yea,  more  —  from  the  unsullied,  farthest  North, 
Where  crashing  icebergs  jar  like  thunder  shocks, 
And  midnight  splendors  wave  and  fade  and  flame, 
Thou  bring'st  a  keen,  fierce  joy.    So  wilt  thou  help 
The  soul  to  rise  in  strength,  as  some  great  wave 
Leaps  forth,  and  shouts,  and  lifts  the  ocean-foam, 
And  rides  exultant  round  the  shining  world. 


THE  TREE    OF  MY   LIFE 

WHEN  I  was  yet  but  a  child,  the  gardener  gave  me  a 

tree, 
A  little  slim  elm,  to  be  set  wherever  seemed  good  to 

me. 
What  a  wonderful  thing  it  seemed !  with  its  lace-edge 

leaves  uncurled, 

And  its  span-long  stem,  that  should  grow  to  the  grand 
est  tree  in  the  world  ! 
So  I  searched  all  the  garden  round,  and  out  over  field 

and  hill, 
But  not  a   spot  could  I  find  that  suited  my  wayward 

will. 
I  would  have  it  bowered  in  the  grove,  in  a  close  and 

quiet  vale ; 
I  would  rear  it  aloft  on  the  height,  to  wrestle  with  the 

gale. 

Then  I  said,  "  I  will  cover  its  roots  with  a  little  earth 
by  the  door, 

And  there  it  shall  live  and  wait,  while  I  search  for  a 
place  once  more." 

But  still  I  could  never  find  it,  the  place  for  my  won 
drous  tree, 

And  it  waited  and  grew  by  the  door,  while  years 
passed  over  me  ; 


THE   TREE    OF   MY   LIFE  285 

Till  suddenly,  one  fine  day,  I  saw  it  was  grown  too 

tall, 
And  its  roots  gone  down  too  deep,  to  be  ever  moved 

at  all. 

So  here  it  is  growing  still,  by  the  lowly  cottage  door ; 

Never  so  grand  and  tall  as  I  dreamed  it  would  be  of 
yore, 

But  it  shelters  a  tired  old  man  in  its  sunshine-dappled 
shade, 

The  children's  pattering  feet  round  its  knotty  knees 
have  played, 

Dear  singing  birds  in  a  storm  sometimes  take  refuge 
there, 

And  the  stars  through  its  silent  boughs  shine  glori 
ously  fair. 


THE    DESERTER 

BLINDEST  and  most  frantic  prayer, 
Clutching  at  a  senseless  boon, 

His  that  begs,  in  mad  despair, 

Death  to  come ;  —  he  comes  so  soon  ! 

Like  a  reveler  that  strains 

Lip  and  throat  to  drink  it  up  — 

The  last  ruby  that  remains, 
One  red  droplet  in  the  cup, 

Like  a  child  that,  sullen,  mute, 

Sulking  spurns,  with  chin  on  breast, 

Of  the  Tree  of  Life  a  fruit, 

His  gift  of  whom  he  is  the  guest, 

Outcast  on  the  thither  shore, 
Open  scorn  to  him  shall  give 

Souls  that  heavier  burdens  bore  : 

"  See  the  wretch  that  dared  not  live  !  " 


A   CALIFORNIAN'S    DREAMS 

A  THUNDER-STORM  of  the  olden  days  ! 

The  red  sun  sinks  in  a  sleepy  haze  ; 

The  sultry  twilight,  close  and  still, 

Muffles  the  cricket's  drowsy  trill. 

Then  a  round-topped  cloud  rolls  up  the  west, 

Black  to  its  smouldering,  ashy  crest, 

And  the  chariot  of  the  storm  you  hear, 

With  its  jarring  axle  rumbling  near ; 

Till  the  blue  is  hid,  and  here  and  there 

The  sudden,  blinding  lightnings  glare. 

Scattering  now  the  big  drops  fall, 

Till  the  rushing  rain  in  a  silver  wall 

Blurs  the  line  of  the  bending  elms, 

Then  blots  them  out  and  the  landscape  whelms. 

A  flash  —  a  clap,  and  a  rumbling  peal : 

The  broken  clouds  the  blue  reveal  ; 

The  last  bright  drops  fall  far  away, 

And  the  wind,  that  had  slept  for  heat  all  day, 

With  a  long-drawn  sigh  awakes  again 

And  drinks  the  cool  of  the  blessed  rain. 

November!   night,  and  a  sleety  storm: 

Close  are  the  ruddy  curtains,  warm 

And  rich  in  the  glow  of  the  roaring  grate, 


288        A    CALIFORNIAN'S    DREAMS 

It  may  howl  outside  like  a  baffled  fate, 
And  rage  on  the  roof,  and  lash  the  pane 
With  its  fierce  and  impotent  wrath  in  vain. 
Sitting  within  at  our  royal  ease 
We  sing  to  the  chime  of  the  ivory  keys, 
And  feast  our  hearts  from  script  and  score 
With  the  wealth  of  the  mellow  hearts  of  yore. 

A  winter's  night  on  a  world  of  snow  ! 

Not  a  sound  above,  not  a  stir  below  : 

The  moon  hangs  white  in  the  icy  air, 

And  the  shadows  are  motionless  everywhere. 

Is  this  the  planet  that  we  know  — 

This  silent  floor  of  the  ghostly  snow  ? 

Or  is  this  the  moon,  so  still  and  dead, 

And  yonder  orb  far  overhead, 

With  its  silver  map  of  plain  and  sea, 

Is  that  the  earth  where  we  used  to  be  ? 

Shall  we  float  away  in  the  frosty  blue 

To  that  living,  summer  world  we  knew, 

With  its  full,  hot  heart-beats  as  of  old, 

Or  be  frozen  phantoms  of  the  cold  ? 

A  river  of  ice,  all  blue  and  glare, 
Under  a  star-shine  dim  and  rare. 
The  sheeny  sheet  in  the  sparkling  light 
Is  ribbed  with  slender  wisps  of  white  — 
Crinkles  of  snow,  that  the  flying  steel 
Lightly  crunches  with  ringing  heel. 


A    CALIFORNIAN'S    DREAMS         289 

Swinging  swift  as  the  swallows  skim, 
You  round  the  shadowy  river's  rim  : 
Falling  somewhere  out  of  the  sky 
Hollow  and  weird  is  the  owlet's  cry; 
The  gloaming  woods  seem  phantom  hosts, 
And  the  bushes  cower  in  the  snow  like  ghosts. 
Till  the  tinkling  feet  that  with  you  glide 
Skate  closer. and  closer  to  your  side, 
And  something  steals  from  a  furry  muff, 
And  you  clasp  it  and  cannot  wonder  enough 
That  a  little  palm  so  soft  and  fair 
Could  keep  so  warm  in  the  frosty  air. 

'T  is  thus  we  dream  in  our  tranquil  clime, 
Rooted  still  in  the  olden  time ; 
Longing  for  all  those  glooms  and  gleams 
Of  passionate  Nature's  mad  extremes. 
Or  was  it  only  our  hearts,  that  swelled 
With  the  youth  and  life  and  love  they  held  ? 


THE  VENUS  OF  MILO,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 

THERE  fell  a  vision  to  Praxiteles  : 
Watching  thro'  drowsy  lids  the  loitering  seas 
That  lay  caressing  with  white  arms  of  foam 
The  sleeping  marge  of  his  Ionian  home. 
He  saw  great  Aphrodite  standing  near, 
Knew  her,  at  last,  the  Beautiful  he  had  sought 
With  .lifelong  passion,  and  in  love  and  fear 
Into  unsullied  stone  the  vision  wrought. 

Far  other  was  the  form  that  Cnidos  gave 
To  senile  Rome,  no  longer  free  or  brave, — 
The  Medicean,  naked  like  a  slave. 
The  Cnidians  built  her  shrine 
Of  creamy  ivory  fine  ; 
Most  costly  was  the  floor 
Of  scented  cedar,  and  from  door 
Was  looped  to  carven  door 
Rich  stuff  of  Tyrian  purple,  in  whose  shade 
Her  glistening  shoulders  and  round  limbs  outshone, 


THE    VENUS    OF    MILO  291 

Milk-white  as  lilies  in  a  summer  moon. 
Here  honey-hearted  Greece  to  worship  came, 
And  on  her  altar  leaped  a  turbid  flame. 
The  quickened  blood  ran  dancing  to'  its  doom, 
And  lip  sought  trembling  lip  in  that  rich  gloom. 

But  the  island  people  of  Cos,  by  the  salt  main 
From  Persia's  touch  kept  clean, 
Chose  for  their  purer  shrine  amid  the  seas 
That  grander  vision  of  Praxiteles. 
Long  ages  after,  sunken  in  the  ground 
Of  sea-girt  Melos,  wondering  shepherds  found 
The  marred  and  dinted  copy  which  men  name 
Venus  of  Milo,  saved  to  endless  fame. 

Before  the  broken  marble,  on  a  day, 
There  came  a  worshiper  :   a  slanted  ray 
Struck  in  across  the  dimness  of  her  shrine 
And  touched  her  face  as  to  a  smile  divine ; 
For  it  was  like  the  worship  of  a  Greek 
At  her  old  altar.    Thus  I  heard  him  speak :  — 

Men  call  thee  Love  :   is  there  no  holier  name 
Than  hers,  the  foam-born,  laughter-loving  dame  ? 
Nay,  for  there  is  than  love  no  holier  name  : 
All  words  that  pass  the  lips  of  mortal  men 
With  inner  and  with  outer  meaning  shine ; 
An  outer  gleam  that  meets  the  common  ken, 
An  inner  light  that  but  the  few  divine. 


292  THE    VENUS    OF    MILO 

Thou  art  the  love  celestial,  seeking  still 
The  soul  beneath  the  form ;   the  serene  will ; 
The  wisdom,  of  whose  deeps  the  sages  dream ; 
The  unseen  beauty  that  doth  faintly  gleam 
In  stars,  and  flowers,  and  waters  where  they  roll ; 
The  unheard  music  whose  faint  echoes  even 
Make  whosoever  hears  a  homesick  soul 
Thereafter,  till  he  follow  it  to  heaven. 

Larger  than  mortal  woman  I  see  thee  stand, 
With  beautiful  head  bent  forward  steadily, 
As  if  those  earnest  eyes  could  see 
Some  glorious  thing  far  off,  to  which  thy  hand 
Invisibly  stretched  onward  seems  to  be. 
From    thy    white    forehead's    breadth    of   calm,    the 

hair 

Sweeps  lightly,  as  a  cloud  in  windless  air. 
Placid  thy  brows,  as  that  still  line  at  dawn 
Where  the  dim  hills  along  the  sky  are  drawn, 
When  the  last  stars  are  drowned  in  deeps  afar. 
Thy  quiet  mouth  —  I  know  not  if  it  smile, 
Or  if  in  some  wise  pity  thou  wilt  weep, — 
Little  as  one  may  tell,  some  summer  morn, 
Whether  the  dreamy  brightness  is  most  glad, 
Or  wonderfully  sad, — 
So  bright,  so  still  thy  lips  serenely  sleep ; 
So  fixedly  thine  earnest  eyes  the  while, 
As  clear  and  steady  as  the  morning  star, 
Their  gaze  upon  that  coming  glory  keep. 


THE    VENUS   OF    MILO  293 

Thy  garment's  fallen  folds 
Leave  beautiful  the  fair,  round  breast 
In  sacred  loveliness ;  the  bosom  deep 
Where  happy  babe  might  sleep ; 
The  ample  waist  no  narrowing  girdle  holds, 
Where  daughters  slim  might  come  to  cling  and  rest, 
Like  tendriled  vines  against  the  plane-tree  pressed. 
Around  thy  firm,  large  limbs  and  steady  feet 
The  robes  slope  downward,  as  the  folded  hills 
Slope  round  the  mountain's  knees,  when  shadow  fills 
The  hollow  canons,  and  the  wind  is  sweet 
From  russet  oat-fields  and  the  ripening  wheat. 

From  our  low  world  no  gods  have  taken  wing ; 
Even  now  upon  our  hills  the  twain  are  wandering : 
The  Medicean's  sly  and  servile  grace, 
And  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  face. 
One  is  the  spirit  of  all  short-lived  love 
An4  outward,  earthly  loveliness  : 
The  tremulous  rosy  morn  is  her  mouth's  smile, 
The  sky  her  laughing  azure  eyes  above ; 
And,  waiting  for  caress, 
Lie  bare  the  soft  hill-slopes,  the  while 
Her  thrilling  voice  is  heard 

In  song  of  wind  and  wave,  and  every  flitting  bird. 
Not  plainly,  never  quite  herself  she  shows ; 
Just  a  swift  glance  of  her  illumined  smile 
Along  the  landscape  goes  ; 
Just  a  soft  hint  of  singing,  to  beguile 


294  THE    VENUS    OF    MILO 

A  man  from  all  his  toil ; 

Some  vanished  gleam  of  beckoning  arm,  to  spoil 

A  morning's  task  with  longing  wild  and  vain. 

Then  if  across  the  parching  plain 

He  seek  her,  she  with  passion  burns 

His  heart  to  fever,  and  he  hears 

The  west  wind's  mocking  laughter  when  he  turns, 

Shivering  in  mist  of  ocean's  sullen  tears. 

It  is  the  Medicean  :  well  I  know 

The  arts  her  ancient  subtlety  will  show ; 

The  stubble-fields  she  turns  to  ruddy  gold ; 

The  empty  distance  she  will  fold 

In  purple  gauze  j  the  warm  glow  she  has  kissed 

Along  the  chilling  mist: 

Cheating  and  cheated  love  that  grows  to  hate 

And  ever  deeper  loathing,  soon  or  late. 

Thou,  too,  O  fairer  spirit,  walkest  here 
Upon  the  lifted  hills  : 

Wherever  that  still  thought  within  the  breast 
The  inner  beauty  of  the  world  hath  moved ; 
In  starlight  that  the  dome  of  evening  fills  ; 
On  endless  waters  rounding  to  the  west : 
For  them  who  thro'  that  beauty's  veil  have  loved 
The  soul  of  all  things  beautiful  the  best. 
For  lying  broad  awake,  long  ere  the  dawn, 
Staring  against  the  dark,  the  blank  of  space 
Opens  immeasurably,  and  thy  face 
Wavers  and  glimmers  there  and  is  withdrawn. 


THE   VENUS    OF    MILO  295 

And  many  days,  when  all  one's  work  is  vain, 

And  life  goes  stretching  on,  a  waste  gray  plain, 

With  even  the  short  mirage  of  morning  gone, 

No  cool  breath  anywhere,  no  shadow  nigh 

Where  a  weary  man  might  lay  him  down  and  die, 

Lo !   thou  art  there  before  me  suddenly, 

With  shade  as  if  a  summer  cloud  did  pass, 

And  spray  of  fountains  whispering  to  the  grass. 

Oh,  save  me  from  the  haste  and  noise  and  heat 

That  spoil  life's  music  sweet : 

And  from  that  lesser  Aphrodite  there  — 

Even  now  she  stands 

Close  as  I  turn,  and,  O  my  soul,  how  fair ! 

Nay,  I  will  heed  not  thy  white  beckoning  hands, 

Nor  thy  soft  lips  like  the  curled  inner  leaf 

In  a  rosebud's  breast,  kissed  languid  by  the  sun, 

Nor  eyes  like  liquid  gleams  where  waters  run. 

Yea,  thou  art  beautiful  as  morn ; 

And  even  as  I  draw  nigh 

To  scoff,  I  own  the  loveliness  I  scorn. 

Farewell,  for  thou  hast  lost  me  :  keep  thy  train 

Of  worshipers  ;  me  thou  dost  lure  in  vain  : 

The  inner  passion,  pure  as  very  fire, 

Burns  to  light  ash  the  earthlier  desire. 

O  greater  Aphrodite,  unto  thee 
Let  me  not  say  farewell.    What  would  Earth  be 
Without  thy  presence  ?    Surely  unto  me 
A  lifelong  weariness,  a  dull,  bad  dream. 


296          THE    VENUS    OF    MILO 

Abide  with  me,  and  let  thy  calm  brows  beam 

Fresh  hope  upon  me  every  amber  dawn, 

New  peace  when  evening's  violet  veil  is  drawn. 

Then,  tho'  I  see  along  the  glooming  plain 

The  Medicean's  waving  hand  again, 

And  white  feet  glimmering  in  the  harvest-held, 

I  shall  not  turn,  nor  yield  ; 

But  as  heaven  deepens,  and  the  Cross  and  Lyre 

Lift  up  their  stars  beneath  the  Northern  Crown, 

Unto  the  yearning  of  the  world's  desire 

I  shall  be  'ware  of  answer  coming  down ; 

And  something,  when  my  heart  the  darkness  stills, 

Shall  tell  me,  without  sound  or  any  sight, 

That  other  footsteps  are  upon  the  hills ; 

Till  the  dim  earth  is  luminous  with  the  light 

Of  the  white  dawn,  from  some  far-hidden  shore, 

That  shines  upon  thy  forehead  evermore. 


FIELD   NOTES1 

i 

BY  the  wild  fence-row,  all  grown  up 
With  tall  oats,  and  the  buttercup, 
And  the  seeded  grass,  and  blue  flax-flower, 
I  fling  myself  in  a  nest  of  green, 
Walled  about  and  all  unseen, 
And  lose  myself  in  the  quiet  hour. 
Now  and  then  from  the  orchard-tree 
To  the  sweet  clover  at  my  knee 
Hums  the  crescendo  of  a  bee, 
Making  the  silence  seem  more  still ; 
Overhead  on  a  maple  prong 
The  least  of  birds,  a  jeweled  sprite, 
With  burnished  throat  and  needle  bill, 
Wags  his  head  in  the  golden  light, 
Till  it  flashes,  and  dulls,  and  flashes  bright, 
Cheeping  his  microscopic  song. 

II 

Far  up  the  hill-farm,  where  the  breeze 
Dips  its  wing  in  the  billowy  grain, 
Waves  go  chasing  from  the  plain 
On  softly  undulating  seas ; 
Now  near  my  nest  they  swerve  and  turn, 

1  Written  for  the  graduating  class   of  1882,  at  Smith  College,  North 
ampton, 


298  FIELD    NOTES 

And  now  go  wandering  without  aim ; 

Or  yonder,  where  the  poppies  burn, 

Race  up  the  slope  in  harmless  flame. 

Sometimes  the  bold  wind  sways  my  walls, 

My  four  green  walls  of  the  grass  and  oats, 

But  never  a  slender  column  falls, 

And  the  blue  sky-roof  above  them  floats. 

Cool  in  the  glowing  sun  I  feel 

On  wrist  and  cheek  the  sea-breeze  steal 

From  the  wholesome  ocean  brine. 

The  air  is  full  of  the  whispering  pine, 

Surf-sound  of  an  aerial  sea  ; 

And  the  light  clashing,  near  and  far, 

As  of  mimic  shield  and  scimitar, 

Of  the  slim  Australian  tree. 

ill 

So  all  that  azure  day 

In  the  lap  of  the  green  world  I  lay; 

And  drinking  of  the  sunshine's  flood, 

Like  Sigurd  when  the  dragon's  blood 

Made  the  bird-songs  understood, 

Inward  or  outward  I  could  hear 

A  murmuring  of  music  near ; 

And  this  is  what  it  seemed  to  say  :  — 

IV 

Old  earth,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Though  restless  fancy  wander  wide 


FIELD    NOTES  299 

And  sigh  in  dreams  for  spheres  more  blest, 
Save  for  some  trouble,  half-confessed, 
Some  least  misgiving,  all  my  heart 
With  such  a  world  were  satisfied. 
Had  every  day  such  skies  of  blue, 
Were  men  all  wise,  and  women  true, 
Might  youth  as  calm  as  manhood  be, 
And  might  calm  manhood  keep  its  lore 
And  still  be  young  —  and  one  thing  more, 
Old  earth  were  fair  enough  for  me. 

Ah,  sturdy  world,  old  patient  world  ! 
Thou  hast  seen  many  times  and  men ; 
Heard  jibes  and  curses  at  thee  hurled 
From  cynic  lip  and  peevish  pen. 
But  give  the  mother  once  her  due  : 
Were  women  wise,  and  men  all  true  — 
And  one  thing  more  that  may  not  be, 
Old  earth  were  fair  enough  for  me. 

v 

If  only  we  were  worthier  found 

Of  the  stout  ball  that  bears  us  round  ! 

New  wants,  new  ways,  pert  plans  of  change, 

New  answers  to  old  questions  strange ; 

But  to  the  older  questions  still 

No  new  replies  have  come,  or  will. 

New  speed  to  buzz  abroad  and  see 

Cities  where  one  needs  not  to  be ; 


300  FIELD    NOTES 

But  no  new  way  to  dwell  at  home, 

Or  there  to  make  great  friendships  come ; 

No  novel  way  to  seek  or  find 

True  hearts  and  the  heroic  mind. 

Of  atom  force  and  chemic  stew 

Nor  Socrates  nor  Caesar  knew, 

But  the  old  ages  knew  a  plan  — 

The  lost  art  —  how  to  mould  a  man. 

VI 

World,  wise  old  world, 
What  may  man  do  for  thee  ? 
Thou  that  art  greater  than  all  of  us, 
What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? 
This  glossy  curve  of  the  tall  grass-spear  — 
Can  I  make  its  lustrous  green  more  clear  ? 
This  tapering  shaft  of  oat,  that  knows 
To  grow  erect  as  the  great  pine  grows, 
And  to  sway  in  the  wind  as  well  as  he  — 
Can  I  teach  it  to  nod  more  graciously  ? 
The  lark  on  the  mossy  rail  so  nigh, 
Wary,  but  pleased  if  I  keep  my  place  — 
Who  could  give  a  single  grace 
To  his  flute-note  sweet  and  high, 
Or  help  him  find  his  nest  hard  by  ? 
Can  I  add  to  the  poppy's  gold  one  bit  ? 
Can  I  deepen  the  sky,  or  soften  it  ? 


FIELD    NOTES  301 

VII 

ALons  ago  a  rock  crashed  down 

From  a  mountain's  crown, 

Where  a  tempest's  tread 

Crumbled  it  from  its  hold. 

Ages  dawn  and  in  turn  grow  old : 

The  rock  lies  still  and  dead. 

Flames  come  and  floods  come, 

Sea  rolls  this  mountain  crumb 

To  a  pebble,  in  its  play  ; 

Till  at  the  last  man  came  to  be, 

And  a  thousand  generations  passed  away. 

Then  from  the  bed  of  a  brook  one  day 

A  boy  with  the  heart  of  a  king 

Fitted  the  stone  to  his  shepherd  sling, 

And  a  giant  fell,  and  a  royal  race  was  free. 

Not  out  of  any  cloud  or  sky 

Will  thy  good  come  to  prayer  or  cry. 

Let  the  great  forces,  wise  of  old, 

Have  their  whole  way  with  thee, 

Crumble  thy  heart  from  its  hold, 

Drown  thy  life  in  the  sea. 

And  aeons  hence,  some  day, 

The  love  thou  gavest  a  child, 

The  dream  in  a  midnight  wild, 

The  word  thou  wouldst  not  say  — 

Or  in  a  whisper  no  one  dared  to  hear, 

Shall  gladden  the  earth  and  bring  the  golden  year. 


302  FIELD    NOTES 

VIII 

Just  now  a  spark  of  fire 

Flashed  from  a  builder's  saw 

On  the  ribs  of  a  roof  a  mile  away. 

His  has  been  the  better  day, 

Gone  not  in  dreams,  nor  even  the  subtle  desire 

Not  to  desire; 

But  work  is  the  sober  law 

He  knows  well  to  obey. 
It  is  a  poem  he  fits  and  fashions  well ; 
And  the  five  chambers  are  five  acts  of  it  : 
Hope  in  one  shall  dwell, 
In  another  fear  will  sit; 
In  the  chamber  on  the  east 
Shall  be  the  bridal  feast ; 
In  the  western  one 
The  dead  shall  lie  alone. 
So  the  cycles  of  life  shall  fill 

The  clean,  pine-scented  rooms  where  now  he  works 
his  will. 

IX 

Might  one  be  healed  from  fevering  thought, 

And  only  look,  each  night, 

On  some  plain  work  well  wrought, 

Or  if  a  man  as  right  and  true  might  be 

As  a  flower  or  tree  ! 

I  would  give  up  all  the  mind 


FIELD    NOTES  303 


In  the  prim  city's  hoard  can  find  — 

House  with  its  scrap-art  bedight, 

Straitened  manners  of  the  street, 

Smooth-voiced  society  — 

If  so  the  swiftness  of  the  wind 

Might  pass  into  my  feet ; 

If  so  the  sweetness  of  the  wheat 

Into  my  soul  might  pass, 

And  the  clear  courage  of  the  grass  ; 

If  the  lark  caroled  in  my  song; 

If  one  tithe  of  the  faithfulness 

Of  the  bird-mother  with  her  brood 

Into  my  selfish  heart  might  press, 

And  make  me  also  instinct-good. 


Life  is  a  game  the  soul  can  play 

With  fewer  pieces  than  men  say. 

Only  to  grow  as  the  grass  grows, . 

Prating  not  of  joys  or  woes  ; 

To  burn  as  the  steady  hearth-fire  burns ; 

To  shine  as  the  star  can  shine, 

Or  only  as  the  mote  of  dust  that  turns 

Darkling  and  twinkling  in  the  beam  of  light  divine ; 

And  for  my  wisdom  —  glad  to  know 

Where  the  sweetest  beech-nuts  grow, 

And  to  track  out  the  spicy  root, 

Or  peel  the  musky  core  of  the  wild-berry  shoot ; 

And  how  the  russet  ground-bird  bold 


304  FIELD    NOTES 

With   both  slim    feet  at  once  will    lightly  rake   the 

mould ; 

And  why  moon-shadows  from  the  swaying  limb 
Here  are  sharp  and  there  are  dim ; 
And  how  the  ant  his  zigzag  way  can  hold 
Through  the  grass  that  is  a  grove  to  him. 

'T  were  good  to  live  one's  life  alone. 

So  to  share  life  with  many  a  one  : 

To  keep  a  thought  seven  years,  and  then 

Welcome  it  coming  to  you 

On  the  way  from  another's  brain  and  pen, 

So  to  judge  if  it  be  true. 

Then  would  the  worl'd  be  fair, 

Beautiful  as  is  the  past, 

Whose  beauty  we  can  see  at  last, 

Since  self  no  more  is  there. 

XI 

I  will  be  glad  to  be  and  do, 

And  glad  of  all  good  men  that  live, 

For  they  are  woof  of  nature  too ; 

Glad  of  the  poets  every  one, 

Pure  Longfellow,  great  Emerson, 

And  all  that  Shakespeare's  world  can  give. 

When  the  road  is  dust,  and  the  grass  dries, 

Then  will  I  gaze  on  the  deep  skies ; 

And  if  Dame  Nature  frown  in  cloud, 

Well,  mother — then  my  heart  shall  say  — 


FIELD    NOTES  305 

You  cannot  so  drive  me  away ; 

I  will  still  exult  aloud, 

Companioned  of  the  good  hard  ground, 

Whereon  stout  hearts  of  every  clime, 

In  the  battles  of  all  time, 

Foothold  and  couch  have  found. 

XII 

Joy  to  the  laughing  troop 

That  from  the  threshold  starts, 

Led  on  by  courage  and  immortal  hope, 

And  with  the  morning  in  their  hearts. 

They  to  the  disappointed  earth  shall  give 

The  lives  we  meant  to  live, 

Beautiful,  free,  and  strong ; 

The  light  we  almost  had 

Shall  make  them  glad  ; 

The  words  we  waited  long 

Shall  run  in  music  from  their  voice  and  song. 

Unto  our  world  hope's  daily  oracles 

From  their  lips  shall  be  brought ; 

And  in  our  lives  love's  hourly  miracles 

By  them  be  wrought. 

Their  merry  task  shall  be 

To  make  the  house  all  fine  and  sweet 

Its  new  inhabitants  to  greet, 

The  wondrous  dawning  century. 


306  FIELD    NOTES 

XIII 

And  now  the  close  of  this  fair  day  was  come; 

The  bay  grew  duskier  on  its  purple  floor, 

And  the  long  curve  of  foam 

Drew  its  white  net  along  a  dimmer  shore. 

Through  the  fading  saffron  light, 

Through  the  deepening  shade  of  even, 

The  round  earth  rolled  into  the  summer  night, 

And  watched  the  kindling  of  the  stars  in  heaven, 


CALIFORNIA  WINTER 

THIS  is  not  winter :  where  is  the  crisp  air, 
And  snow  upon  the  roof,  and  frozen  ponds, 
And  the  star-fire  that  tips  the  icicle  ? 

Here  blooms  the  late  rose,  pale  and  odorless; 
And  the  vague  fragrance  in  the  garden  walks 
Is  but  a  doubtful  dream  of  mignonette. 
In  some  smooth  spot,  under  a  sleeping  oak 
That  has  not  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as  spring, 
The  ground  has  stolen  a  kiss  from  the  cool  sun 
And  thrilled  a  little,  and  the  tender  grass 
Has  sprung  untimely,  for  these  great  bright  days, 
Staring  upon  it,  will  not  let  it  live. 
The  sky  is  blue,  and  't  is  a  goodly  time, 
And  the  round,  barren  hillsides  tempt  the  feet; 
But  't  is  not  winter :  such  as  seems  to  man 
What  June  is  to  the  roses,  sending  floods 
Of  life  and  color  through  the  tingling  veins. 

It  is  a  land  without  a  fireside.  Far 
Is  the  old   home,  where,  even  this  very  night, 
Roars  the  great  chimney  with  its  glorious  fire, 
And  old  friends  look  into  each  other's  eyes 
Quietly,  for  each  knows  the  other's  trust. 


308  CALIFORNIA    WINTER 

Heaven  is  not  far  away  such  winter  nights : 
The  big   white  stars  are  sparkling  in  the  east, 
And  glitter  in  the  gaze  of  solemn  eyes ; 
For  many  things  have  faded  with  the  flowers, 
And  many  things  their  resurrection  wait ; 
Earth  like  a  sepulchre  is  sealed  with  frost, 
And  Morn  and  Even  beside  the  silent  door 
Sit  watching,  and  their  soft  and  folded  wings 
Are  white  with  feathery  snow. 

Yet   even  here 

We  are  not  quite  forgotten  by  the  Hours, 
Could  human  eyes  but  see  the  beautiful 
Save  through  the  glamour  of  a  memory. 
Soon  comes  the  strong  south  wind,  and  shouts  aloud 
Its  jubilant  anthem.    Soon  the  singing  rain 
Comes  from  warm  seas,  and  in  its  skyey  tent 
Enwraps  the  drowsy  world.    And  when,  some  night, 
Its  flowing  folds  invisibly  withdraw, 
Lo !  the  new  life  in  all  created  things  ! 
The  azure  mountains  and  the  ocean  gates 
Against  the  lovely  sky  stand  clean  and  clear 
As  a  new  purpose  in  the  wiser  soul. 


THE  LOVER'S  SONG 

LEND  me  thy  fillet,  Love ! 

I   would  no  longer  see  ; 
Cover  mine  eyelids  close  awhile, 

And  make  me  blind  like  thee. 

Then  might  I  pass  her  sunny  face, 

And  know  not  it  was  fair ; 
Then  might  I  hear  her  voice,  nor  guess 

Her  starry  eyes  were  there. 

Ah  !  banished  so  from  stars  and  sun  — 

Why  need  it  be  my  fate  ? 
If  only  she  might  deem  me  good 

And  wise,  and  be  my  mate  ! 

Lend  her  thy  fillet,  Love  ! 

Let  her  no  longer  see : 
If  there  is  hope  for  me  at  all, 

She  must  be  blind  like  thee. 


RECALL 

"  LOVE  me,  or  I  am  slain  ! "  I  cried,  and  meant 
Bitterly  true  each  word.   Nights,  morns,  slipped  by, 
Moons,  circling  suns,  yet  still  alive  am  I ; 
But  shame  to  me,  if  my  best  time  be  spent 

On  this  perverse,  blind  passion !  Are  we  sent 
Upon  a  planet  just  to  mate  and  die, 
A  man  no  more  than  some  pale  butterfly 
That  yields  his  day  to.  nature's  sole  intent  ? 

Or  is  my  life  but  Marguerite's  ox-eyed  flower, 

That  I  should  stand  and  pluck  and  fling  away, 

One  after  one,  the  petal  of  each  hour, 

Like  a  love-dreamy  girl,  and  only  say, 

"  Loves  me,"  and  "loves  me  not,"  and  "loves  me"? 

Nay! 
Let  the  man's  mind  awake  to  manhood's  power. 


THE  REFORMER 

BEFORE  the  monstrous  wrong  he  sets  him  down  — 
One  man  against  a  stone-walled  city  of  sin. 
For  centuries  those  walls  have  been  a-building; 
Smooth  porphyry,  they  slope  and  coldly  glass 
The  flying  storm  and  wheeling  sun.   No  chink, 
No  crevice  lets  the  thinnest  arrow  in. 
He  rights  alone,  and  from  the  cloudy  ramparts 
A  thousand  evil  faces  gibe  and  jeer  him. 
Let  him  lie  down  and  die  :  what  is  the  right, 
And  where  is  justice,  in  a  world  like  this  ? 
But  by  and  by,  earth  shakes  herself,  impatient ; 
And  down,  in  one  great  roar  of  ruin,  crash 
Watch-tower  and  citadel  and  battlements. 
When  the  red  dust  has  cleared,  the  lonely  soldier 
Stands   with    strange    thoughts    beneath  the   friendly 
stars. 


DESIRE    OF  SLEEP 

IT  is  not  death  I  mean, 

Nor  even  forgetfulness, 
But  healthful  human  sleep, 
Dreamless,  and  still,  and  deep, 
Where  I  would  hide  and  glean 
Some  heavenly  balm  to  bless. 

I  would  npt  die;   I  long 

To  live,  to  see  my  days 
Bud  once  again,  and  bloom, 
And  make  amidst  them  room 
For  thoughts  like  birds  of  song, 
Out-winging  happy  ways. 

I  would  not  even  forget : 
Only,  a  little  while  — 
Just  now —  I  cannot  bear 
Remembrance  with  despair; 
The  years  are  coming  yet 

When  I  shall  look,  and  smile. 

Not  now  —  oh,  not  to-night ! 
Too  clear  on  midnight's  deep 


DESIRE    OF   SLEEP  313 

Come  voice  and  hand  and  touch ; 
The  heart  aches  overmuch  — 

Hush  sounds!  shut  out  the  light! 

A  little  I  must  sleep. 


EVE'S    DAUGHTER 

I  WAITED  in  the  little  sunny  room  : 

The  cool  breeze  waved  the  window-lace,  at  play, 
The  white  rose  on  the  porch  was  all  in  bloom, 

And  out  upon  the  bay 
I  watched  the  wheeling  sea-birds  go  and  come. 

"  Such  an  old  friend,  —  she  would  not  make  me  stay 

While  she  bound  up  her  hair."    I  turned,  and  lo, 
Danae  in  her  shower !   and  fit  to  slay 

All  a  man's  hoarded  prudence  at  a  blow : 
Gold  hair,  that  streamed  away 

As  round  some  nymph  a  sunlit  fountain's  flow. 
"  She  would  not  make  me  wait !  "  —  but  well  I  know 

She  took  a  good  half-hour  to  loose  and  lay 
Those  locks  in  dazzling  disarrangement  so ! 


A    HYMN  OF  HOPE 

FOR    THE    HUNDREDTH    ANNIVERSARY    OF    PHILLIPS 
EXETER    ACADEMY 

HAS,  then,  our  boyhood  vanished, 

And  rosy  morning  fled  ? 
Are  faith  and  ardor  banished, 

Is  daring  courage  dead  ? 
Still  runs  the  olden  river 

By  meadow,  hill,  and  wood, — 
Where  are  the  hearts  that  ever 

Beat  high  with  royal  blood  ? 

The  golden  dreams  we  cherished 

Pacing  the  ancient  town,  — 
Have  they  but  bloomed  and  perished, 

And  flown  like  thistledown  ? 
Nay,  still  the  air  is  haunted 

With  mystery  as  of  old  ; 
Each  blossom  is  enchanted, 

And  every  leaflet's  fold. 

Not  one  fair  hope  we  hearkened, 

But  still  to  youth  returns ; 
Not  one  clear  light  hath  darkened, — 

Still  for  some  breast  it  burns  : 


316  A    HYMN    OF    HOPE 

Though  age  by  age  is  lying 
Beneath  the  gathering  mould, 

Life's  dawn-light  is  undying, 
Its  dreams  grow  never  old. 

As  the  great  faithful  planet 

Goes  plunging  on  its  track, 
Thought  still  shall  bravely  man  it, 

And  steer  through  storm  and  wrack; 
While  but  three  souls  are  toiling 

Who  would  give  all  for  right, 
Whom  gold  nor  fame  is  spoiling, 

Whose  prayer  is  but  for  light ; 

While  there  are  found  a  handful* 

Of  spirits  vowed  to  truth, 
Clear-eyed,  courageous,  manful, 

And  comrades  as  in  youth  ; 
Out  of  the  darkness' sun  ward, 

Out  of  the  night  to  day, 
While  all  the  worlds  swing  onward, 

Life  shall  not  lose  its  way. 

When  to  the  man-soul  lonely 
The  loving  gods  came  down, 

Earth  gave  the  mantle  only, 

Free  mind  the  immortal  crown. 

Wild  force  with  cloud-wraith  stature 
Unsealed  shall  tower  in  vain, 


A    HYMN    OF    HOPE  317 

And  the  fierce  Afreet,  Nature, 
Obey  the  sceptred  brain. 

O  heart  of  man  immortal, 

Beat  on  in  love  and  cheer ! 
Somewhere  the  cloudy  portal 

Of  all  thy  prayers  shall  clear. 
The  fair  earth's  mighty  measure 

Of  life,  untouched  by  rime, 
Through  star-dust  and  through  azure 

Rolls  on  to  endless  time. 

The  power  that  motes  inherit, 

That  bud  and  crystal  find, 
Hath  not  forgotten  spirit, 

Nor  left  the  soul  behind. 
O'er  Time's  dumb  forces  fleeting 

T.his  victory  we  begin, 
Dear  eye-beams  and  the  beating 

Of  heart  with  heart  shall  win. 


AN  ANCIENT  ERROR 

He  that  has  and  a  little  tiny  wit,  — 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain.  —  LEAR 

THE  "  sobbing  wind,"  the  "  weeping  rain," 

'T  is  time  to  give  the  lie 
To  these  old  superstitions  twain, 

That  poets  sing  and  sigh. 

Taste  the  sweet-  drops,  —  no  tang  of  brine ; 

Feel  them,  —  they  do  not  burn  ; 
The  daisy-buds,  whereon  they  shine, 

Laugh,  and  to  blossoms  turn. 

There  is  no  natural  grief  or  sin  ; 

'T  is  we  have  flung  the  pall, 
And  brought  the  sound  of  sorrow  in. 

Pan  is  not  dead  at  all. 

The  merry  Pan  !  his  blithesome  look 
Twinkles  through  sun  and  rain  ; 

By  ivied  rock  and  rippled  brook 
He  pipes  his  jocund  strain. 

If  winds  have  wailed  and  skies  wept  tears, 
To  poet's  vision  dim, 


AN    ANCIENT   ERROR  319 

'T  was  that  his  own  sobs  filled  his  ears, 
His  weeping  blinded  him. 

'Tis  laughing  breeze  and  singing  shower, 

As  ever  heart  could  need ; 
And  who  with  "  hey  "  and  "  ho  "  must  lower 

Hath  "  tiny  wit  "  indeed. 


AN  ADAGE    FROM  THE   ORIENT 

AT  the  punch-bowl's  brink, 
Let  the  thirsty  think 
What  they  say  in  Japan  : 

"  First  the  man  takes  a  drink, 
Then  the  drink  takes  a  drink, 
Then  the  drink  takes  the  man  !  " 


TO   A  MAID   DEMURE 

OFTEN  when  the  night  is  come, 
With  its  quiet  group  at  home, 
While  they  broider,  knit,  or  sew, 
Read,  or  chat  in  voices  low, 
Suddenly  you  lift  your  eyes 
With  an  earnest  look,  and  wise ; 
But  I  cannot  read  their  lore,— 
Tell  me  less,  or  tell  me  more. 

Like  a  picture  in  a  book, 
Pure  and  peaceful  is  your  look, 
Quietly  you  walk  your  ways ; 
Steadfast  duty  fills  the  days. 
Neither  tears  nor  fierce  delights, 
Feverish  days  nor  tossing  nights, 
Any  troublous  dreams  confess,— 
Tell  me  more,  or  tell  me  less. 

Swift  the  weeks  are  on  the  wing ; 
Years  are  brief,  and  love  a  thing 
Blooming,  fading,  like  a  flower ; 
Wake  and  seize  the  little  hour. 
Give  me  welcome,  or  farewell  ; 
Quick  !   I  wait !    And  who  can  tell 
What  to-morrow  may  befall, — 
Love  me  more,  or  not  at  all. 


HERMIONE 


THE    LOST    MAGIC 

WHITE  in  her  snowy  stone,  and  cold, 
With  azure  veins  and  shining  arms, 

Pygmalion  doth  his  bride  behold, 

Rapt  on  her  pure  and  sculptured  charms. 

Ah  !   in  those  half-divine  old  days 
Love  still  worked  miracles  for  men  ; 

The  gods  taught  lovers  wondrous  ways 
To  breathe  a  soul  in  marble  then. 

He  gazed,  he  yearned,  he  vowed,  he  wept. 

Some  secret  witchery  touched  her  breast ; 
And,  laughing  April  tears,  she  stepped 

Down  to  his  arms  and  lay  at  rest. 

Dear  artist  of  the  storied  land ! 

I  too  have  loved  a  heart  of  stone. 
What  was  thy  charm  of  voice  or  hand, 

Thy  secret  spell,  Pygmalion  ? 


HERMIONE  323 

II 

INFLUENCES 

If  quiet  autumn  mornings  would  not  come, 

With  golden  light,  and  haze,  and  harvest  wain, 

And  spices  of  the  dead  leaves  at  my  feet ; 

If  sunsets  would  not  burn  through  cloud,  and  stain 

With  fading  rosy  flush  the  dusky  dome ; 

If  the  young  mother  would  not  croon  that  sweet 

Old  sleep-song,  like  the  robin's  in  the  rain  ; 

If  the  great  cloud-ships  would  not  float  and  drift 

Across  such  blue  all  the  calm  afternoon ; 

If  night  were  not  so  hushed  ;   or  if  the  moon 

Might  pause  forever  by  that  pearly  rift, 

Nor  fill  the  garden  with  its  flood  again  ; 

If  the  world  were  not  what  it  still  must  be, 

Then  might  I  live  forgetting  love  and  thee. 

Ill 

THE    DEAD    LETTER 

The  letter  came  at  last.    I  carried  it 
To  the  deep  woods  unopened.    All  the  trees 
Were  hushed,  as  if  they  waited  what  was  writ, 
And  feared  for  me.    Silent  they  let  me  sit 
Among  them;   leaning  breathless  while  I  read, 
And  bending  down  above  me  where  they  stood. 
A  long  way  off  I  heard  the  delicate  tread 
Of  the  light-footed  loiterer,  the  breeze, 
Come  walking  toward  me  in  the  leafy  wood. 


324  HERMIONE 

I  burned  the  page  that  brought  me  love  and  woe. 
At  first  it  writhed  to  feel  the  spires  of  flame, 
Then  lay  quite  still ;   and  o'er  each  word  there  came 
Its  white  ghost  of  the  ash,  and  burning  slow 
Each  said :  "  You  cannot  kill  the  spirit ;   know 
That  we  shall  haunt  you,  even  till  heart  and  brain 
Lie  as  we  lie  in  ashes  —  all  in  vain." 

IV 

THE    SONG    IN    THE    NIGHT 

In  the  deep  night  a  little  bird 

Wakens,  or  dreams  he  is  awake  : 

Cheerily  clear  one  phrase  is  heard, 

And  you  almost  feel  the  morning  break. 

In  the  deep  dark  of  loss  and  wrong, 
One  face  like  a  lovely  dawn  will  thrill, 

And  all  night  long  at  my  heart  a  song 
Suddenly  stirs  and  then  is  still. 


TRUTH    AT    LAST 

DOES  a  man  ever  give  up  hope,  I  wonder, — 
Face  the  grim  fact,  seeing  it  clear  as  day  ? 
When  Bennen  saw  the  snow  slip,  heard  its  thunder 
Low,  louder,  roaring  round  him,  felt  the  speed 
Grow  swifter  as  the  avalanche  hurled  downward, 
Did  he  for  just  one  heart-throb  —  did  he  indeed 
Know  with  all  certainty,  as  they  swept  onward, 
There  was  the  end,  where  the  crag  dropped  away  ? 
Or  did  he  think,  even  till  they  plunged  and  fell, 
Some  miracle  would  stop  them  ?    Nay,  they  tell 
That  he  turned  round,  face  forward,  calm  and  pale, 
Stretching  his  arms  out  toward  his  native  vale 
As  if  in  mute,  unspeakable  farewell, 
And  so  went  down.  —  'T  is  something,  if  at  last, 
Though  only  for  a  flash,  a  man  may  see 
Clear-eyed  the  future  as  he  sees  the  past, 
From  doubt,  or  fear,  or  hope's  illusion  free. 


UNTIMELY   THOUGHT 

I  LOOKED  across  the  lawn  one  summer's  day, 
Deep  shadowed,  dreaming  in  the  drowsy  light, 
And  thought,  what  if  this  afternoon,  so  bright 

And  still,  should  end  it  ?  —  as  it  may. 

Blue  dome,  and  flocks  of  fleece  that  slowly  pass 
Before  the  pale  old  moon,  the  while  she  keeps 
Her  sleepy  watch,  and  ancient  pear  that  sweeps 

Its  low,  fruit-laden  skirts  along  the  grass. 

What  if  I  had  to  say  to  all  of  these, 

u  So  this  is  the  last  time  "  —  suddenly  there 
My  love  came  loitering  under  the  great  trees  ; 

And  now  the  thought  I  could  no  longer  bear  : 
Startled  I  flung  it  from  me,  as  one  flings 
All  sharply  from  the  hand  a  bee  that  stings. 


SERVICE 

FRET  not  that  the  day  is  gone, 
And  thy  task  is  still  undone. 
'Twas  not  thine,  it  seems,  at  all : 
Near  to  thee  it  chanced  to  fall, 
Close  enough  to  stir  thy  brain, 
And  to  vex  thy  heart  in  vain. 
Somewhere,  in  a  nook  forlorn, 
Yesterday  a  babe  was  born  : 
He  shall  do  thy  waiting  task  ; 
All  thy  questions  he  shall  ask, 
And  the  answers  will  be  given, 
Whispered  lightly  out  of  heaven. 
His  shall  be  no  stumbling  feet, 
Falling  where  they  should  be  fleet : 
He  shall  hold  no  broken  clue ; 
Friends  shall  unto  him  be  true ; 
Men  shall  love  him ;   falsehood's  aim 
Shall  not  shatter  his  good  name. 
Day  shall  nerve  his  arm  with  light,   . 
Slumber  soothe  him  all  the  night ; 
Summer's  peace  and  winter's  storm 
Help  him  all  his  will  perform. 
'Tis  enough  of  joy  for  thee 
His  high  service  to  foresee. 


ON    A    PICTURE   OF    MT.    SHASTA    BY 
KEITH 

Two  craggy  slopes,  sheer  down  on  either  hand, 

Fall  to  a  cleft,  dark  and  confused  with  pines. 

Out  of  their  sombre  shade  —  one  gleam  of  light  — 

Escaping  toward  us  like  a  hurrying  child, 

Half  laughing,  half  afraid,  a  white  brook  runs. 

The  fancy  tracks  it  back  through  the  thick  gloom 

Of  crowded  trees,  immense,  mysterious 

As  monoliths  of  some  colossal  temple, 

Dusky  with  incense,  chill  with  endless  time  : 

Through  their  dim  arches  chants  the  distant  wind, 

Hollow  and  vast,  and  ancient  oracles 

Whisper,  and  wait  to  be  interpreted. 

Far  up  the  gorge  denser  and  darker  grows 

The  forest ;   columns  lie  with  writhen  roots  in  air, 

And  across  open  glades  the  sunbeams  slant 

To  touch  the  vanishing  wing-tips  of  shy  birds ; 

Till  from  a  mist-rolled  valley  soar  the  slopes, 

Blue-hazy,  dense  with  pines  to  the  verge  of  snow, 

Up  into  cloud.    Suddenly  parts  the  cloud, 

And  lo  !  in  heaven  —  as  pure  as  very  snow, 

Uplifted  like  a  solitary  world  - 

A  star,  grown  all  at  once  distinct  and  clear,  — 

The  white  earth-spirit,  Shasta  !    Calm,  alone, 


ON    A    PICTURE    OF    MT.    SHASTA     329 

Silent  it  stands,  cold  in  the  crystal  air, 
White-bosomed  sister  of  the  stainless  dawn, 
With  whom  the  cloud  holds  converse,  and  the  storm 
Rests  there,  and  stills  its  tempest  into  snow. 

Once  —  you  remember? — we  beheld  that  vision, 

But  busy  days  recalled  us,  and  the  whole 

Fades  now  among  my  memories  like  a  dream. 

The  distant  thing  is  all  incredible, 

And  the  dim  past  as  if  it  had  not  been. 

Our  world  flees  from  us ;   only  the  one  point, 

The  unsubstantial  moment,  is  our  own. 

We  are  but  as  the  dead,  save  that  swift  mote 

Of  conscious  life.    Then  the  great  artist  comes, 

Commands  the  chariot  wheels  of  Time  to  stay, 

Summons  the  distant,  as  by  some  austere 

Grand  gesture  of  a  mighty  sorcerer's  wand, 

And  our  whole  world  again  becomes  our  own. 

So  we  escape  the  petty  tyranny 

Of  the  incessant  hour;   pure  thought  evades 

Its  customary  bondage,  and  the  mind 

Is  lifted  up,  watching  the  moon-like  globe. 

How  should  a  man  be  eager  or  perturbed 
Within  this  calm  ?    How  should  he  greatly  care 
For  reparation,  or  redress  of  wrong,  — 
To  scotch  the  liar,  or  spurn  the  fawning  knave, 
Or  heed  the  babble  of  the  ignoble  crew  ? 
Seest  thou  yon  blur  far  up  the  icy  slope, 


330     ON    A    PICTURE    OF    MT.    SHASTA 

Like  a  man's  footprint  ?   Half  thy  little  town 
Might  hide  there,  or  be  buried  in  what  seems 
From  yonder  cliff  a  curl  of  feathery  snow. 
Still  the  far  peak  would  keep  its  frozen  calm, 
Still  at  the  evening  on  its  pinnacle 
Would  the  one  tender  touch  of  sunset  dwell, 
And  o'er  it  nightlong  wheel  the  silent  stars. 
So  the  great  globe  rounds  on,  —  mountains,  and  vales, 
Forests,  waste  stretches  of  gaunt  rock  and  sand, 
Shore,  and  the  swaying  ocean,  —  league  on  league  ; 
And  blossoms  open,  and  are  sealed  in  frost ; 
And  babes  are  born,  and  men  are  laid  to  rest. 
What  is  this  breathing  atom,  that  his  brain 
Should  build  or  purpos'e  aught  or  aught  desire, 
But  stand  a  moment  in  amaze  and  awe, 
Rapt  on  the  wonderfulness  of  the  world  ? 


"QUEM    METUI    MORITURA?" 

JENEID,  iv.  604 

WHAT  need  have  I  to  fear  —  so  soon  to  die  ? 
Let  me  work  on,  not  watch  and  wait  in  dread  : 
What  will  it  matter,  when  that  I  am  dead, 

That  they  bore  hate  or  love  who  near  me  lie  ? 

JT  is  but  a  lifetime,  and  the  end  is  nigh 
At  best  or  worst.    Let  me  lift  up  my  head 
And  firmly,  as  with  inner  courage,  tread 

Mine  own  appointed  way,  on  mandates  high. 

Pain  could  but  bring,  from  all  its  evil  store, 

The  close  of  pain  :  hate's  venom  could  but  kill 

Repulse,  defeat,  desertion,  could  no  more. 

Let  me  have  lived  my  life,  not  cowered  until 

The  unhindered  and  unhastened  hour  was  here. 

So  soon  —  what  is  there  in  the  world  to  fear  ? 


THE   SINGER 

SILLY  bird  ! 

When  his  mate  is  near, 

Not  a  note  of  singing  shall  you  hear. 

Take  his  little  love  away, 

Half  the  livelong  day 

Will  his  tune  be  heard  — 

Silly  bird ! 

Sunny  days  ' 

Silent  basks  he  in  the  light, 

Little  sybarite ! 

But  when  all  the  room 

Darkens  in  the  gloom, 

And  the  rain 

Pours  and  pours  along  the  pane, 

He  is  bent 

(Ah,  the  small  inconsequent !) 

On  defying  all  the  weather ; 

Rain  and  cloud  and  storm  together 

Naught  to  him, 

Singing  like  the1  seraphim. 

So  we  know  a  poet's  ways  : 
Sunny  days, 


THE    SINGER  333 

Silent  he 

In  his  fine  serenity ; 
But  if  winds  are  loud, 
He  will  pipe  beneath  the  cloud ; 
And  if  one  is  far  away, 
Sings  his  heart  out,  as  to  say, — 
"  It  may  be 
She  will  hear  and  come  to  me." 


WORDSWORTH 

A  MOONLIT  desert's  yellow  sands, 
Where,  dimmer  than  its  shadow,  stands 
A  motionless  palm-tree  here  and  there, 
And  the  great  stars  through  amber  air 
Burn  calm  as  planets,  and  the  face 
Of  earth  seems  lifting  into  space  :  — 

A  tropic  ocean's  starlit  rest, 

Along  whose  smooth  and  sleeping  breast 

Slow  swells  just  stir  the  mirrored  gleams, 

Like  faintest  sighs  in  placid  dreams  ; 

All  overhead  the  night,  so  high 

And  hollow  that  there  seems  no  sky, 

But  the  unfathomed  deeps,  among 

The  worlds  down  endless  arches  swung  :  - 

On  moonlit  plain,  and  starlit  sea, 
Is  life's  lost  charm,  tranquillity. 

A  poet  found  it  once,  and  took 
It  home,  and  hid  it  in  a  book, 
As  one  might  press  a  violet. 
There  still  the  odor  lingers  yet. 
Delicious  ;   from  your  treasured  tomes 


WORDSWORTH  335 

Reach  down  your  Wordsworth,  and  there  comes 
That  fragrance  which  no  bard  but  he 
E'er  caught,  as  if  the  plain  and  sea 
Had  yielded  their  serenity. 


THE   WORLD   RUNS    ROUND 

FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE    "OVERLAND    MAGAZINE, 
SAN  FRANCISCO,    1884 

THE  world  runs  round, 
And  the  world  runs  well ; 
And  at  heaven's  bound, 
Weaving  what  the  hours  shall  tell 
Of  the  future  way, 
Sit  the  great  Norns,  sisters  gray. 
Now  a  thread  of  doom  and  hate, 
Now  a  skein  of  life  and  love, — 
Whether  hearing  shriek  or  psalm, 
Hearts  that  curse  or  pray, 
Most  composed  and  very  calm 
Is  their  weaving,  soon  and  late. 

One  man's  noisy  years  go  by, 

Rich  to  the  crowd's  shallow  eye, 

Full  of  big  and  empty  sound, 

Brandished  gesture,  voice  profound, 

Blustering  benevolence, 

Thin  in  deeds  and  poor  in  pence. 

Out  of  it  all,  so  loud  and  long, 

What  one  thread  that 's  clean  and  strong 

To  weave  the  coming  good, 

Can  the  great  Norns  find  ? 


THE    WORLD    RUNS    ROUND       337 

But  where  some  poor  child  stood, 
And  shrank,  and  wept  its  faultiness, 
Out  of  that  little  life  so  blind 
The  great  web  takes  a  golden  strand 
That  shall  shine  and  that  shall  stand 
The  whole  wide  world  to  bless. 

One  man  walks  in  silk  : 
Honey  and  milk 
Flow  through  his  days. 
Corn  loads  his  wains, 
He  hath  all  men's  praise, 
He  sees  his  heart's  desire. 
In  all  his  veins 

What  can  the  sorrowful  Norns 
Find  of  heroic  fire  ? 
Another  finds  his  ways 
All  blocked  and  barred 
Lonely,  he  grapples  hard, 
Sets  teeth  and  bleeds. 
Then  the  glad  Norns 
Know  he  succeeds, 
With  victory  wrought 
Greater  than  he  sought. 

When  will  the  world  believe 
Force  is  for  him  that  is  met  and  fought : 
Storm  hath  no  song  till  the  pine  resists ; 
Lightning  no  flame  when  it  runs  as  it  lists  ; 


338       THE    WORLD    RUNS    ROUND 

So  do  the  wise  Norns  weave. 

The  world  runs  round, 

And  the  world  runs  well  : 

It  needs  no  prophet,  when  evil  is  found, 

Good  to  foretell. 

Many  the  voices 
Ruffling  the  air : 
This  one  rejoices, 
That  in  despair 
Past  the  sky-bars 
Climbs  to  the  stars. 

One  voice  is"  heard 
By  the  ocean's  shore, 
Speaking  a  word 
Quiet  and  sane, 
Amid  the  human  rush  and  roar 
Like  a  robin's  song  in  the  rain. 
The  red  gold  of  the  sun 
Seems  to  stream  in  power 
Already  from  behind  the  shower 
When  that  song  's  begun. 

It  doth  not  insist,  or  claim; 

You  may  hear,  or  go : 

It  clamors  not  for  gain  or  fame, 

Tranquilly  and  slow 

It  speaketh  unafraid, 


THE   WORLD    RUNS    ROUND       339 

Calls  the  spade,  spade, 

With  the  large  sense  mature 

Of  him  that  hath  both  sat  and  roved, 

And  with  a  solemn  undercurrent  pure, 

As  his  that  now  hath  lived  and  loved. 

Brightened  with  glimpse  and  gleam 

Of  mother-wit  — 

There  is  more  salt  in  it, 

More  germ  and  sperm 

Of  the  great  things  to  be, 

Than  louder  notes  men  speak  and  sing. 

It  is  a  voice  of  Spring, 
Clear  and  firm. 
Tones  prophetic  in  it  flow, 
Steady  and  strong, 
Yet  soft  and  low  — 
An  excellent  thing  in  song. 
"  I  can  wait,"  saith  merry  Spring ; 
If  the  rain  runneth,  and  the  wind  hummeth, 
And  the  mount  at  morn  be  hoar  with  snow, 
In  the  frost  the  violet  dozes, 
Wind  and  rain  bear  breath  of  roses, 
And  the  great  summer  cometh 
Wherein  all  things  shall  gayly  bloom  and  grow. 
Long  may  the  voice  be  found, 
Potent  its  spell, 
While  the  world  runs  round, 
And  the  world  runs  well. 


CARPE    DIEM 

How  the  dull  thought  smites  me  dumb, 
"  It  will  come  !  "  and  "  It  will  come  ! " 
But  to-day  I  am  not  dead ; 
Life  in  hand  and  foot  and  head 
Leads  me  on  its  wondrous  ways. 
'T  is  in  such  poor,  common  days, 
Made  of  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
Golden  truth  has  leaped  to  light, 
Potent  messages  have  sped, 
Torches  flashed  with  running  rays, 
World-runes  started  on  their  flight. 

Let  it  come,  when  come  it  must ; 
But  To-Day  from  out  the  dust 
Blooms  and  brightens  like  a  flower, 
Fair  with  love,  and  faith,  and  power. 
Pluck  it  with  unclouded  will, 
From  the  great  tree  Igdrasil. 


AMONG  THE    REDWOODS 

FAREWELL  to  such  a  world  !    Too  long  I  press 
The  crowded  pavement  with  unwilling  feet. 

Pity  makes  pride,  and  hate  breeds  hatefulness, 
And  both  are  poisons.    In  the  forest,  sweet 

The  shade,  the  peace  !    Immensity,  that  seems 

To  drown  the  human  life  of  doubts  and  dreams. 

Far  off  the  massive  portals  of  the  wood, 

Buttressed  with  shadow,  misty-blue,  serene, 

Waited  my  coming.    Speedily  I  stood 

Where  the  dun  wall  rose  roofed  in  plumy  green. 

Dare    one    go    in  ?  —  Glance    backward !    Dusk    as 
night 

Each  column,  fringed  with  sprays  of  amber  light. 

Let  me,  along  this  fallen  bole,  at  rest, 

Turn  to  the  cool,  dim  roof  my  glowing  face. 

Delicious  dark  on  weary  eyelids  prest ! 
Enormous  solitude  of  silent  space, 

But  for  a  low  and  thunderous  ocean  sound, 

Too  far  to  hear,  felt  thrilling  through  the  ground  ! 

No  stir  nor  call  the  sacred  hush  profanes  ; 

Save  when  from  some  bare  treetop,  far  on  high, 


342         AMONG   THE   REDWOODS 

Fierce  disputations  of  the  clamorous  cranes 
Fall  muffled,  as  from  out  the  upper  sky. 
So  still,  one  dreads  to  wake  the  dreaming  air, 
Breaks  a  twig  softly,  moves  the  foot  with  care. 

The  hollow  dome  is  green  with  empty  shade, 

Struck  through  with  slanted  shafts  of  afternoon  ; 

Aloft,  a  little  rift  of  blue  is  made, 

Where  slips  a  ghost  that  last  night  was  the  moon  ; 

Beside  its  pearl  a  sea-cloud  stays  its  wing, 

Beneath  a  tilted  hawk  is  balancing. 

The  heart  feels  not  in  every  time  and  mood 
What  is  around  it.    Dull  as  any  stone 

I  lay ;   then,  like  a  darkening  dream,  the  wood 
Grew  Karnak's  temple,  where  I  breathed  alone 

In  the  awed  air  strange  incense,  and  uprose 

Dim,  monstrous  columns  in  their  dread  repose. 

The  mind  not  always  sees ;  but  if  there  shine 
A  bit  of  fern-lace  bending  over  moss, 

A  silky  glint  that  rides  a  spider-line, 

On  a  trefoil  two  shadow-spears  that  cross, 

Three  grasses  that  toss  up  their  nodding  heads, 

With    spring    and     curve    like    clustered    fountain- 
threads, — 

Suddenly,  through  side  windows  of  the  eye, 
Deep  solitudes,  where  never  souls  have  met; 


AMONG   THE    REDWOODS         343 

Vast  spaces,  forest  corridors  that  lie 

In  a  mysterious  world,  unpeopled  yet. 
Because  the  outward  eye  elsewhere  was  caught, 
The  awfulness  and  wonder  come  unsought. 

If  death  be  but  resolving  back  again 

Into  the  world's  deep  soul,  this  is  a  kind 

Of  quiet,  happy  death,  untouched  by  pain 
Or  sharp  reluctance.    For  I  feel  my  mind 

Is  interfused  with  all  I  hear  and  see  ; 

As  much  a  part  of  All  as  cloud  or  tree. 

Listen !    A  deep  and  solemn  wind  on  high ; 

The  shafts  of  shining  dust  shift  to  and  fro ; 
The  columned  trees  sway  imperceptibly, 

And  creak  as  mighty  masts  when  trade-winds  blow. 
The  cloudy  sails  are  set;   the  earth-ship  swings 
Along  the  sea  of  space  to  grander  things. 


AT   DAWN 

I  LAY  awake  and  listened,  ere  the  light 

Began  to  whiten  at  the  window  pane. 

The  world  was  all  asleep  :   earth  was  a  fane 

Emptied  of  worshipers  ;   its  dome  of  night, 

Its  silent  aisles,  were  awful  in  their  gloom. 

Suddenly  from  the  tower  the  bell  struck  four, 

Solemn  and  slow,  how  slow  and  solemn  !   o'er 

Those  death-like  slumberers,  each  within  his  room. 

The  last  reverberation  pulsed  so  long 

It  seemed  no  tone  of  earthly  mould  at  all. 

But  the  bell  woke  a  thrush ;  and  with  a  call 

He  roused  his  mate,  then  poured  a  tide  of  song : 

Morning  is  coming,  fresh,  and  clear,  and  blue," 

Said  that  bright  song ;  and  then  I  thought  of  you. 


HER   FACE 

I  STOOD  in  sombre  dreaming 
Before  her  image  dear, 

And  saw,  in  secret  wonder, 
Living  my  darling  appear. 

About  her  mouth  a  smile  came, 
So  wonderful  and  wise, 

And  tears  of  some  still  sorrow 
Seemed  shining  in  her  eyes. 

My  tears,  they  too  were  flowing, 
Her  face  I  could  not  see, 

And  oh  !  I  cannot  believe  it, 
That  my  love  is  lost  to  me. 


LATER    POEMS 


A   MORNING  THOUGHT 

WHAT  if  some  morning,  when  the  stars  were  paling, 
And  the  dawn  whitened,  and  the  East  was  clear, 

Strange  peace  and  rest  fell  on  me  from  the  presence 
Of  a  benignant  Spirit  standing  near: 

And  I  should  tell  him,  as  he  stood  beside  me, 

"  This   is   our  Earth  —  most   friendly   Earth,  and 
fair  ; 

Daily  its  sea  and  shore  through  sun  and  shadow 
Faithful  it  turns,  robed  in  its  azure  air : 

"  There  is  blest  living  here,  loving  and  serving, 
And  quest  of  truth,  and  serene  friendships  dear; 

But  stay  not,  Spirit!    Earth  has  one  destroyer, — 
His  name  is  Death :  flee,  lest  he  find  thee  here  ! " 

And  what  if  then,  while  the  still  morning  brightened, 
And  freshened  in  the  elm  the  Summer's  breath, 

Should  gravely  smile  on  me  the  gentle  angel 

And  take  my  hand  and  say,  "  My  name  is  Death ! " 


STRANGE 

HE  died  at  night.    Next  day  they  came 
To  weep  and  praise  him  :   sudden  fame 
These  suddenly  warm  comrades  gave. 
They  called  him  pure,  they  called  him  brave ; 
One  praised  his  heart,  and  one  his  brain  ; 
All  said,  You'd  seek  his  like  in  vain, — 
Gentle,  and  strong,  and  good :   none  saw 
In  all  his  character  a  flaw. 

At  noon  he  wakened  from  his  trance, 
Mended,  was  well !    They  looked  askance ; 
Took  his  hand  coldly  ;   loved  him  not, 
Though  they  had  wept  him  ;   quite  forgot 
His  virtues  ;  lent  an  easy  ear 
To  slanderous  tongues;   professed  a  fear 
He  was  not  what  he  seemed  to  be ; 
Thanked  God  they  were  not  such  as  he ; 
Gave  to  his  hunger  stones  for  bread  ; 
And  made  him,  living,  wish  him  dead. 


MOODS 

DAWN  has  blossomed  :  the  sun  is  nigh  : 
Pearl  and  rose  in  the  wimpled  sky, 
Rose  and  pearl  on  a  brightening  blue. 
(She  is  true,  and  she  is  true  !) 

The  noonday  lies  all  warm  and  still 
And  calm,  and  over  sleeping  hill 
And  wheatfields  falls  a  dreamy  hue. 
(If  she  be  true  — r-  if  she  be  true  !) 

The  patient  evening  comes,  most  sad  and  fair : 
Veiled  are  the  stars  ;   the  dim  and  quiet  air 
Breathes  bitter  scents  of  hidden  myrrh  and  rue. 
(If  she  were  true  —  if  she  were  only  true  !) 


THE    BOOK  OF   HOURS 

As  one  who  reads  a  tale  writ  in  a  tongue 
He  only  partly  knows, —  runs  over  it 
And  follows  but  the  story,  losing  wit 

And  charm,  and  half  the  subtle  links  among 

The  haps  and  harms  that  the  book's  folk  beset,  — 
So  do  we  with  our  life.  Night  comes,  and  morn 
I  know  that  one  has  died  and  one  is  born ; 

That  this  by  love  and  that  by  hate  is  met. 

But  all  the  grace  and  glory  of  it  fail 

To  touch  me,  and  the  meanings  they  enfold. 

The  Spirit  of  the  World  hath  told  the  tale, 
And  tells  it :   and  't  is  very  wise  and  old. 

But  o'er  the  page  there  is  a  mist  and  veil  : 
I  do  not  know  the  tongue  in  which  't  is  told. 


"  WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS  " 

TO  ONE  WHO  FLOUTED  THEM  AS  VAIN 
I 

AM  I  not  weary  of  them  as  your  heart 
Or  ever  Hamlet's  was  ?  —  the  empty  ones, 
Mere  breath  of  passing  air,  mere  hollow  tones 
That  idle  winds  to  broken  reeds  impart. 

Have  they  not  cursed  my  life  ?  —  sounds  I  mistook 
For  sacred  verities,  —  love,  faith,  delight, 
And  the  sweet  tales  that  women  tell  at  night, 
When  darkness  hides  the  falsehood  of  the  look. 

I  was  the  one  of  all  Ulysses'  crew 

(What  time  he  stopped  their  ears)  that  leaped  and  fled 

Unto  the  sirens,  for  the  honey-dew 

Of  their  dear  songs.  The  poets  me  have  fed 
With  the  same  poisoned  fruit.   And  even  you, — 
Did  you  not  pluck  them  for  me  in  days  dead  ? 

II 

Nay,  they  do  bear  a  blessing  and  a  power,  — 
Great  words  and  true,  that  bridge  from  soul  to  soul 
The  awful  cloud-depths  that  betwixt  us  roll. 
I  will  not  have  them  so  blasphemed.  This  hour, 


"WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS"       351 

This  little  hour  of  life,  this  lean  to-day, — 
What  were  it  worth  but  for  those   mighty  dreams 
That  sweep  from  down  the  past  on  sounding  streams 
Of  such  high-thoughted  words  as  poets  say  ? 

What,  but  for  Shakespeare's  and  for  Homer's  lay, 
And  bards  whose  sacred  names  all  lips  repeat  ? 
Words,  —  only  words  ;  yet,  save  for  tongue  and  pen 

Of  those  great  givers  of  them  unto  men, 
And  burdens  they  still  bear  of  grave  or  sweet, 
This  world  were  but  for  beasts,  a  darkling  den. 


TRANSLATIONS 

FOUR  SONNETS  FROM  SULLY  PRUD- 
HOMME 

SIESTA 

ALL  summer  let  me  lie  along  the  grass, 

Hands  under  head,  and  lids  that  almost  close ; 

Nor  mix  a  sigh  with  breathings  of  the  rose, 
Nor  vex  light-sleeping  echo  with  "Alas  !  " 
Fearless,  I  will  abandon  blood,  and  limb, 

And  very  soul  to  the  all-changing  hours ; 

In  calmness  letting  the  unnumbered  powers 
Of  nature  weave  my  rest  into  their  hymn. 
Beneath  the  sunshine's  golden  tent  uplift 

Mine  eyes  shall  watch  the  upper  blue  unfurled, 
Till  its  deep  joy  into  my  heart  shall  sift 

Through  lashes  linked,  and,  dreaming  on  the  world, 
Its  love  and  hate,  or  memories  far  of  these, 
Shall  lull  me  like  the  sound  of  distant  seas. 


FOUR  SONNETS  FROM  PRUDHOMME  353 

THE   CLOUD 

Couched  on  the  turf,  and  lying  mute  and  still, 

While  the  deep  heaven  lifts  higher  and  more  pure, 
I  love  to  watch,  as  if  some  hidden  lure 

It  followed,  one  light  cloud  above  the  hill. 

The  flitting  film  takes  many  an  aspect  strange : 
An  orchard's  snow ;  a  far-off,  sunlit  sail ; 
A  fleck  of  foam ;  a  seraph's  floating  veil. 

We  see  it  altered,  never  see  it  change. 

Now  a  soft  shred  detaches,  fades  from  sight ; 
Another  comes,  melts,  and  the  blue  is  clear 

And  clearer,  as  when  breath  has  dimmed  the  steel. 
Such  is  my  changeful  spirit,  year  by  year: 

A  sigh,  the  soul  of  such  a  cloud,  as  light 

And  vanishing,  lost  in  the  infinite. 

IN   SEPARATION 

The  bliss  that  happy  lovers  dream  will  bloom 
Forever  new  shall  scarce  outlast  the  year : 
Their  calmer  kisses  wake  nor  smile  nor  tear; 
Love's  nesting-place  already  is  its  tomb, 
Since  sated  eyes  grow  weary  of  their  prey, 
And  constant  vows  their  own  best  hopes  betray, 
And  love's  June  lily,  marred  but  by  a  breath,       , 
Falls   where  the  other  lilies  lie  in  death, 
Therefore  the  doom  of  land  and  sea  that  bar 
My  life  from  hers  I  do  accept.    At  least 
No  passion  will  rise  jaded  from  the  feast. 


354  FOUR  SONNETS  FROM  PRUDHOMME 

My  pure  respect  no  passing  fires  can  stain  ; 
So  without  hope  I  love  her,  without  pain, 
Without  desire,  as  one  might  love  a  star. 

L' AMOUR    ASSASSINE 

Poor  wretch!  that  smites,  in  his  despair  insane, 
The  tender  mouth  for  which  he  has  no  bread, 
And  in  some  lonely  spot,  ere  it  be  dead, 

Covers  the  little  corse,  yet  warm,  ill-slain  : 

So  I  struck  down  dear  Love  for  being  born  ! 

I  smoothed  the  limbs,  and  closed  the  eyes,  and  lone 
The  darling  form  was  left,  'neath  ponderous  stones; 

Then,  at  my  deed  dismayed,  I  fled  forlorn. 

I  deemed  my  love  was  dead  indeed,  in  vain ! 
Erect  he  speaks,  close  by  the  open  tomb, 
'Mid  April  lilacs  even  there  in  bloom, 
With  immortelles  his  pale  brow  glorified  : 
uThou  didst  but  wound  ;  I  live  to  seek  her  side  ; 

Not  by  thy  hand,  not  thine,  can  I   be  slain  !  " 


MY  PEACE  THOU  ART 

AFTER  SCHUBERT'S  "  Du  BIST  MEIN'  RUH' 

MY  peace  thou  art,  thou  art  my  rest ; 
From  thee  my  pain,  in  thee  so  blest : 
Enter  mine  eyes,  this  heart  draw  near; 
Oh  come,  oh  dwell  forever  here. 

Enter,  and  close  the  door,  and  come, 
And  be  this  breast  thine  endless  home  ; 
Shut  out  all  lesser  care  and  woe, 
I  would  thy  hurt  and  healing  know. 

Clear  light  that  on  my  soul  hath  shone, 
Still  let  it  shine  from  thee  alone, 
From  thee  alone. 


MIR  AUS  DEN  AUGEN 

FROM  A  POLISH  SONG  OF  CHOPIN 

"  AWAY  !   Let  not  mine  eyes,  my  heart,  behold  you  !  " 
It  was  your  right  to  choose  ;  I   heard  you  say, 

"  Forget !    We  must  forget !  "    Love  might  have  told 

you 
'T  was  vain.    You  could  not,  more  than  I,  obey. 

As  the  dim  shadows  down  the  pastures  lengthen, 
The  further  sinks  the  day-star's  fading  fire, 

So  in  your  breast  will  tender  memories  strengthen, 
Deeper  and  darker  as  my  steps  retire. 

At  every  hour,  in  every  place  of  meeting, 
Where  we  together  shared  delight  and  pain, 

Yes,  everywhere  will  dear  thoughts  keep  repeating, 
"Here,  too,  his  voice, his  look,  his  touch,  remain!  " 


THE  ORACLE 

DOWN  in  its  crystal  hollow 
Gleams  the  ebon  well  of  ink : 

In  the  deepest  drop  lies  lurking 
The  thought  all  men  shall  think. 

Fair  on  the  waiting  tablet 

Lies  the  empty  paper's  space : 

Out  of  its  snow  shall  flush  a  word 
Like  an  angel's  earnest  face. 

Who  in  those  depths  shall  cast  his  line 
For  the  gnome  that  hugs  that  thought  ? 

Who  from  the  snowy  field  shall  charm 
That  flower  of  truth  untaught  ? 

Not  in  the  lore  of  the  ancients, 

Not  in  the  yesterday  : 
On  the  lips  of  the  living  moments 

The  gods  their  message  lay. 

Somewhere  near  it  is  waiting, 

Like  a  night-wind  wandering  free, 

Seeking  a  mouth  to  speak  through,  — 
Whose  shall  the  message  be  ? 


358  THE    ORACLE 

It  may  steal  forth  like  a  flute  note, 

It  may  be  suddenly  hurled 
In  blare  upon  blare  of  a  trumpet  blast, 

To  startle  and  stir  the  world. 

Hark  !   but  just  on  the  other  side 
Some  thinnest  wall  of  dreams, 

Murmurs  a  whispered  music, 
And  softest  rose-light  gleams. 

Listen,  and  watch,  and  tell  the  world 
What  it  almost  dies  to  know  : 

Or  wait  —  and  the  wise  old  world  will  say, 
"  I  knew  it  long  ago." 


TEMPTED 

YES,  I  know  what  you  say : 

Since  it  cannot  be  soul  to  soul, 

Be  it  flesh  to  flesh,  as  it  may ; 
But  is  Earth  the  whole  ? 

Shall  a  man  betray  the  Past 

For  all  Earth  gives  ? 
"  But  the  Past  is  dead  ?  "    At  last, 
It  is  all  that  lives. 

Which  were  the  nobler  goal  — 
To  snatch  at  the  moment's  bliss, 

Or  to  swear  I  will  keep  my  soul 
Clean  for  her  kiss  ? 


FORCE 

THE  stars  know  a  secret 

They  do  not  tell ; 
And  morn  brings  a  message 

Hidden  well. 

There  's  a  blush  on  the  apple, 

A  tint  on  the  wing, 
And  the  bright  wind  whistles, 

And  the,  pulses  sting. 

Perish  dark  memories  ! 

There  's  light  ahead  ; 
This  world  Js  for  the  living- ; 

o  ' 

Not  for  the  dead. 

In  the  shining  city, 

On  the  loud  pave, 
The  life-tide  is  running 

Like  a  leaping  wave. 

How  the  stream  quickens, 
As  noon  draws  near, 

No  room  for  loiterers, 
No  time  for  fear. 


FORCE  361 

Out  on  the  farm  lands 

Earth  smiles  as  well  •, 
Gold-crusted  grain-fields, 

With  sweet,  warm  smell ; 

Whir  of  the  reaper, 

Like  a  giant  bee ; 
Like  a  Titan  cricket, 

Thrilling  with  glee. 

On  mart  and  meadow, 

Pavement  or  plain, 
On  azure  mountain, 

Or  azure  main  — 

Heaven  bends  in  blessing; 

Lost  is  but  won  ; 
Goes  the  good  rain-cloud, 

Comes  the  good  sun  ! 

Only  babes  whimper, 

And  sick  men  wail, 
And  faint  hearts  and  feeble  hearts 

And  weaklings  fail. 

Down  the  great  currents 

Let  the  boat  swing ; 
There  was  never  winter 

But  brought  the  spring. 


INFIRMITY 

WHAT  is  the  truth  to  believe, 

What  is  the  right  to  be  done  ? 
Caught  in  the  webs  I  weave 

I  halt  from  sun  to  sun. 

The  bright  wind  flows  along, 

Calm  nature's  streaming  law, 
And  its  stroke  is  soft  and  strong 

As  a  leopard's  velvet  paw. 

Free  of  the  doubting  mind, 

Full  of  the  olden  power, 
Are  the  tree,  and  the  bee,  and  the  wind, 

And  the  wren,  and  the  brave  may-flower. 

Man  was  the  last  to  appear, 

A  glow  at  the  close  of  day  ; 
Slow  clambering  now  in  fear 

He  gropes  his  slackened  way. 

All  the  up-thrust  is  gone, 

Force  that  came  from  of  old, 
Up  through  the  fish,  and  the  swan, 

And  the  sea-king's  mighty  mould. 


INFIRMITY  363 

The  youth  of  the  world  is  fled, 

There  are  omens  in  the  sky, 
Spheres  that  are  chilled  and  dead, 

And  the  close  of  an  age  is  nigh. 

The  time  is  too  short  to  grieve, 
Or  to  choose,  for  the  end  is  one : 

And  what  is  the  truth  to  believe, 
And  what  is  the  right  to  be  done  ? 


HER   EXPLANATION 

So  you  have  wondered  at  me,  —  guessed  in  vain 
What  the  real  woman  is  you  know  so  well  ? 

I  am  a  lost  illusion.    Some  strange  spell 
Once  made  your  friend  there,  with  his  fine  disdain 
Of  fact,  conceive  me  perfect.    He  would  fain 

(But  could  not)  see  me  always,  as  befell 

His  dream  to  see  me,  plucking  asphodel, 
In  saffron  robes,  on  some  celestial  plain. 
All  that  I  was  he  marred  and  flung  away 

In  quest  of  what  I  was  not,  could  not  be, — 

Lilith,  or  Helen,  or  Antigone. 
Still  he  may  search ;  but  I  have  had  my  day, 

And  now  the  Past  is  all  the  part  for  me 
That  this  world's  empty  stage  has  left  to  play. 


WARNING 

BE  true  to  me !    For  there  will  dawn  a  day 
When  thou  wilt  find  the  faith  that  now  I  see, 
Bow  at  the  shrines  where  I  must  bend  the  knee, 
Knowing  the  great  from  small.    Then  lest  thou  say, 
"  Ah  me,  that  I  had  never  flung  away 
His  love  who  would  have  stood  so  close  to  me 
Where  now  I  walk  alone," —  lest  there  should  be 
Such  vain  regret,  Love,  oh,  be  true  !    But  nay, 
Not  true  to  me  :   true  to  thine  own  high  quest 
Of  truth;  the  aspiration  in  thy  breast, 
Noble  and  blind,  that  pushes  by  my  hand, 
And  will  not  lean,  yet  cannot  surely  stand ; 
True  to  thine  own  pure  heart,  as  mine  to  thee 
Beats  true.    So  shalt  thou  best  be  true  to  me. 


AT  EARLY   MORN 

WALK  who  will  at  deep  of  noon, 
Or  stroll  fantastic  in  the  moon ; 
I  would  take  the  morning  earth, 
New  as  at  creation's  birth, 
Air  unbreathed,  and  grass  untrod ; 
Where  I  cross  the  dawn-lit  sod, 
Making  green  paths  in  the  gray 
Of  the  dew  that 's  brushed  away. 

Would  some  depth  of  holy  night, 
Sacred  with  its  starry  light) 
Over  all  my  breast  might  roll, 
Bringing  dawn  unto  my  soul, 
That  its  consecrated  dew 
Might  refresh  and  make  me  new  ! 
Then  that  thou  and  I  might  pace 
Some  far  planet,  poised  in  space, 
Fresh  as  children  innocent, 
In  each  other's  love  content ! 
There  our  feet  should  recommence, 
Lightened  of  experience, 
Morning  ways  on  dewy  slope, 
Winged  with  wonder  and  with  hope ; 
All  the  things  we  'd  thought,  or  done, 
Or  felt  before,  forgot  —  save  one  ! 


SUMMER  NIGHT 

FROM  the  warm  garden  in  the  summer  night 

All  faintest  odors  came:  the  tuberose  white 

Glimmered  in  its  dark  bed,  and  many  a  bloom 

Invisibly  breathed  spices  on  the  gloom. 

It  stirred  a  trouble  in  the  man's  dull  heart, 

A  vexing,  mute  unrest :  "  Now  what  thou  art, 

Tell  me  !  "  he  said  in  anger.    Something  sighed, 

"  I  am  the  poor  ghost  of  a  ghost  that  died 

In  years  gone  by."    And  he  recalled  of  old 

A  passion  dead  —  long  dead,  even  then  —  that  came 

And  haunted  many  a  night  like  this,  the  same 

In  their  dim  hush  above  the  fragrant  mould 

And  glimmering  flowers,  and  troubled  all  his  breast. 

"  Rest !  "  then  he  cried  ;  "  perturbed  spirit,  rest !  " 


HIS    NEIGHBOR  AS   HIMSELF 

BLACK    the    storming    ocean,    crests    that    leap   and 

whelm ; 

Ship  a  tumbling  ruin,  stripped  of  spar  and  helm. 
Now  she  shudders  upward,  strangled  with  a  sea ; 
Then  she  hangs  a  moment,  and  the  moon  breaks  free 
On  her  huddled  creatures,  waiting  but  to  drown, 
As  she  reels  and  staggers,  ready  to  go  down. 

Crash  !   the  glassy  mountain  whirls  her  to  her  grave. 
In  the  foam  three  struggle;   one  his  love  will  save. 
There  's  a  plank  for  two,  but,  as  he  lifts  her  there, 
Lo  !   his  rival  sinking ;  eyes  that  clutch  despair. 
Only  a  swift  instant  left  him  to  decide, — 
Shall  he  drown,  and  yield  the  other  life  and  bride  ? 

In  the  peaceful  morning  stays  a  snowy  sail. 

Two   afloat,  —  one   missing.    Which   one?     Did  he 

fail,- 
Coward,  merely  man  ?    Or  did  the  great   sea  darken 

eyes 
All  divinely  shining  with  self-sacrifice  ? 


NIGHT  AND   PEACE 

NIGHT  in  the  woods,  —  night : 

Peace,  peace  on  the  plain. 
The  last  red  sunset  beam 

Belts  the  tall  beech  with  gold ; 

The  quiet  kine  are  in  the  fold, 
And  stilly  flows  the  stream. 

Soon  shall  we  see  the  stars  again, 

For  one  more  day  down  to  its  rest  has  lain, 
And  all  its  cares  have  taken  flight, 

And  all  its  doubt  and  pain. 
Night  in  the  woods, —  night: 

Peace,  peace  on  the  plain. 


THE    PHILOSOPHER 

His  wheel  of  logic  whirled  and  spun  all  day ; 
All  day  he  held  his  system,  grinding  it 
Finer  and  finer,  till  't  was  fined  away. 

But  the  chance  sparks  of  sense  and  mother-wit, 
Flung  out  as  that  wheel-logic  spun  and  whirled, 
Kindled  the  nations,  and  lit  up  the  world. 


HIS    LOST    DAY 

GROWING  old,  and  looking  back 
Wistfully  along  his  track, 
I  have  heard  him  try  to  tell, 
With  a  smile  a  little  grim, 
Why  a  world  he  loved  so  well 
Had  no  larger  fruit  of  him  :  — 

'T  was  one  summer,  when  the  time 
Loitered  like  drowsy  rhyme, 
Sauntering  on  his  idle  way 
Somehow  he  had  lost  a  day. 
Whether  't  was  the  daisies  meek, 
Keeping  Sabbath  all  the  week, 
Birds  without  one  work-day  even, 
Or  the  little  pagan  bees, 
Busy  all  the  sunny  seven, — 
Whether  sleep  at  afternoon, 
Or  much  rising  with  the  moon, 
Couching  with  the  morning  star, 
Or  enchantments  like  to  these, 
Had  confused  his  calendar, — 

"  It  is  Saturday,"  men  said. 

"  Nay,    't  is  Friday,"  obstinate 
Clung  the  notion  in  his  head. 


372  HIS    LOST    DAY 

Had  the  cloudy  sisters  three, 
In  their  weaving  of  his  fate, 
Dozed,  and  dropped  a  stitch  astray  f 

"  JT  was  the  losing  of  that  day 
Cost  my  fortune,"  he  would  say. 

u  On  that  day  I  should  have  writ 
Screeds  of  wisdom  and  of  wit; 
Should  have  sung  the  missing  song, 
Wonderful,  and  sweet,  and  strong  ; 
Might  have  solved  men's  doubt  and  dream 
With  some  waiting  truth  supreme. 
If  another  thing  there  be 
That  a  groping  hand  may  miss 
In  a  twilight  world  like  this, 
Those  lost  hours  its  grace  and  glee 
Surely  would  have  brought  to  me." 


FULFILLMENT 

ALL  the  skies  had  gloomed  in  gray, 
Many  a  week,  day  after  day. 
Nothing  came  the  blank  to  fill, 
Nothing  stirred  the  stagnant  will. 
Winds  were  raw;   buds  would  not  swell : 
Some  malign  and  sullen  spell 
Soured  the  currents  of  the  year, 
And  filled  the  heart  with  lurking  fear. 

In  his  room  he  moped  and  glowered, 
Where  the  leaden  daylight  lowered ; 
Drummed  the  casement,  turned  his  book, 
Hating  nature's  hostile  look. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  day 
When  he  flung  his  gloom  away. 
Something  hinted  help  was  near : 
Winds  were  fresh  and  sky  was  clear ; 
Light  he  stepped,  and  firmly  planned,— 
Some  good  news  was  close  at  hand 

Truly  :  for  when  day  was  done, 
He  was  lying  all  alone, 


374  FULFILLMENT 

Fretted  pulse  had  ceased  to  beat, 
Very  still  were  hands  and  feet, 
And  the  robins  through  the  long 
Twilight  sang  his  slumber  song. 


THE   RETURN  TO   ARCADIA 

FROM  Athens,  Rome,  and  Asia, 
The  scattered  troop  returns.    They  are 
Old  comrades,  who  have  felt,  afar, 
u  Et  ego  in  Arcadia." 

"  Come,  friends  !   now  that  the  table's  cleared, 
And  flesh  and  fowl  have  disappeared, 
Let  us  recount  to  one  another 
Our  treatment  from  the  world,  our  mother. 
UrbanuS)  thou  who  hast  a  home 
In  the  great  metropole  of  Rome, 
What  canst  thou  say  in  blame  or  praise 
Of  the  rich  city's  latest  ways  ?  " 

"  What !    tempt  an  old  boy  thus  to  tell 
Tales  out  of  school  ?    Must  I  ?    Ah,  well, 
Among  ourselves  perhaps  I  may  : 
For  Rome  it  is  the  crisis-day. 
The  brave  old  city  turns  at  bay 
Against  a  vile  barbarian  crew ; 
Itself  not  pure  as  once  :   the  new 
Aristocrats,  who  've  lately  sprung 
Like  flaunting  weeds  from  heaps  of  dung, 
The  novi  homines  —  a  breed 


376        THE    RETURN    TO    ARCADIA 

Of  clowns  that  scarce  their  names  can  read, 

Throng  pave  and  palace,  to  display 

The  vulgar  antics  of  the  day. 

Their  wives,  too  senseless  to  be  blamed, 

Half  naked  and  all  unashamed, 

Their  sons  with  manners  of  the  slave, 

Their  girls  with  morals  of  the  pave, 

These  shine  —  a  scum  upon  the  stream 

Of  the  great  city  of  your  dream. 

The  rich  on  harlots  waste  their  store, 

And  brutish  Gallic  plays.    The  poor 

Rot  in  their  vermin,  gnash  their  teeth, 

And  curse  the  feet  they  cower  beneath. 

Meantime  the  city  fathers  steal 

The  purses  of  the  common  weal. 

But  there  are  portents  in  the  air : 

The  stern  old  Roman  stuff  is  there, 

Silent  and  grim.    The  other  day, 

A  robber,  swaggering  with  his  prey 

Past  great  'Justitias  column,  saw 

Flash  white  the  letters  of  the  law, 

And  swift  the  statue's  sleeping  glaive 

Fell  ringing  down  and  smote  the  knave  !  " 

"  Now,  Atticus,  we  fain  would  know 
With  thee  and  Athens  how  things  go. 
What  of  Brain-city  ?    Surely  there 
They  breathe  a  somewhat  purer  air  ?  " 


THE    RETURN   TO    ARCADIA      377 

"  Cold,  cold,  i'  faith,  and  all  too  thin. 
Their  thinkers  have  abolished  sin, 
And  virtue  has  become  good  taste. 
They  Ve  goodness,  but  it  goes  tight-laced. 
Your  true  Athenian  likes  things  new ; 
In  all  things  superstitious,  too. 
No  temples  thronged  like  theirs  ;  at  least 
By  women,  amorous  of  the  priest. 
At  knocking  spirits  they  turn  pale, 
And  trust  the  augurs'  spectral  tale ; 
The  sly  old  augurs  !   who  must  wink 
And  nudge  each  other,  when  they  think. 
I  saw  a  houseful  on  their  knees 
Before  the  ghost  of  Pericles  — 
Some  lank  Thessalian  from  the  fleet, 
Chalk-visaged,  stalking  in  a  sheet. 
I  saw  a  shrewd  Ionian 
Take  forty  drachmae  from  a  man 
For  stroking  his  rheumatic  limb, 
And  calling  on  the  gods  for  him. 
At  every  gleam  of  truth  they  blink, 
Save  what  they  think  their  neighbors  think. 
I  hold  with  old  Lucretius 
Against  their  ghostly  fudge  and  fuss. 
When  all  their  gods  they  glibly  name, 
And  when  I  see  this  life  of  flame 
That  leaps  in  impotent  despair 
And  breaks  its  heart  upon  the  air, 


378      THE    RETURN    TO    ARCADIA 

I  turn,  O  friends,  with  clasp  of  hands 
For  you  —  for  the  divine  that  stands 
And  faces  me  with  human  eyes 
And  living  deeds  and  dear  replies." 

u  Now,  Rusticus^  what  of  thy  quest 
Beyond  the  barriers  of  the  West  ?  " 

"  The  earth  all  right ;  the  world  all  wrong. 
The  birds  are  wise,  the  beasts  are  strong  ; 
The  trees  are  virtuous,  pure  the  air, 
And  field  and  farm  and  fold  are  fair ; 
But  as  to  men  — ye  know  what  are 
The  thick  clods  of  Boeotia  : 
Too  dull  to  read,  too  dull  to  think, 
Brain-sodden,  with  the  Celtic  drink, 
Till  any  demagogue  may  win 
Their  plaudits,  plumed  however  thin. 
In  feverish  towns  impatient  strive 
The  angry  toilers  of  the  hive, 
Storing  not  honey,  soon  or  late, 
But  venom  of  distrust  and  hate. 
Bitter  of  heart,  and  blind  of  brain, 
They  grope  for  better  things  in  vain, 
And  crouch  like  whipped  hounds  to  the  knaves 
That  boast  them  free  to  bind  them  slaves." 

"  And  now,  Mugwumpius,  bard  and  seer, 
How  wags  thy  world,  this  many  a  year  ? 


THE    RETURN    TO    ARCADIA       379 

Far  hidden  in  thy  mountain  tower, 
What  is  thy  message  of  the  hour  ?  " 

"  Like  hurrying  life,  my  thought  I  tell 
In  two  words  —  welcome  !   and  farewell ! 
I  Ve  trimmed  my  vines,  and  browned  my  hay, 
And  fed  my  pheasants  of  Cathay, 
Watching  you  others  try  your  wings, 
And  pondering  on  the  world  of  things. 
I  trust  the  seasons,  as  they  roll-; 
I  trust  the  striving  human  soul. 
These  ills  and  wrongs  that  gall  and  goad, 
I  count  them  all  as  episode ; 
And  far  beyond  these  years  I  see 
The  dawn  of  golden  destiny. 
Welcome,  oh,  welcome  !  —  Nay,  a  bell 
More  solemn  peals  —  farewell !   farewell !  " 


THE    BLOTTED    PAGE 

THE  Angel  with  the  Book 

That  holds  each  word  and  deed, 

On  my  'page  let  me  look ; 
And  as  I  blushed  to  read,— 

"  Three  things,"  the  Angel  said, 

"  1  may  blot  out  for  thee." 
I  bowed  in  thought  my  head  — 
Now  which  ones  should  they  be  ? 

"  Blot  this  !  "  —  "  No,  that !  "  came  quick, 

As  still  new  conscience  woke  ; 
Till  all  the  leaf  was  thick 

With  blackening  blur  and  stroke. 

"  'Twere  better  as  I  live," 

I  cried  in  my  despair, 
"  To  blot  the  whole,  and  give 

A  new  page  otherwhere  !  " 


LIVING 

"  TO-DAY,"  I  thought,  "  I  will  not  plan  nor  strive  ; 

Idle  as  yon  blue  sky,  or  clouds  that  go 

Like  loitering  ships,  with  sails  as  white  as  snow, 
I  simply  will  be  glad  to  be  alive." 

For,  year  by  year,  in  steady  summer  glow 
The  flowers  had  bloomed,  and  life  had  stored  its  hive, 
But  tasted  not  the  honey.    Quite  to  thrive, 

The  flavor  of  my  thrift  I  now  would  know. 
But  the  good  breeze  blew  in  a  friend —  a  boon 

At  any  hour.    There  was  a  book  to  show, 

A  gift  to  take,  a  slender  one  to  give. 
The  morning  passed  to  mellow  afternoon, 
And  that  to  twilight;   it  was  sleep-time  soon, — 
And  lo  !  again  I  had  forgot  to  live. 


BLINDFOLD 

WHAT  do  we  know  of  the  world,  as  we  grow  so  old 

and  wise  ? 
Do  the  years,  that  still  the  heart-beats,  quicken  the 

drowsy  eyes  ? 
At  twenty  we  thought  we  knew  it,  —  the  world  there, 

at  our  feet ; 
We  thought  we  had  found  its  bitter,  we  knew  we  had 

found  its  sweet. 
Now  at  forty  and   fifty,  what   do  we   make    of   the 

world  ? 
There  in  her  sand  she  crouches,  the  Sphinx  with  her 

gray  wings  furled. 

Soul  of  a  man  I  know  not ;  who  knoweth,  can  fore 
tell, 
And  what  can   I  read  of  fate,  even  of  self  I    have 

learned  so  well  ? 
Heart  of  a  woman  I  know  not  :  how  should  I  hope  to 

know, 
I  that  am  foiled  by  a  flower,  or  the  stars  of  the  silent 

snow  ; 
I  that  have  never  guessed  the  mind  of  the  bright-eyed 

bird, 
Whom  even  the  dull  rocks  cheat,  and  the  whirlwind's 

awful  word  ? 


BLINDFOLD  383 

Let  me  loosen  the  fillet  of  clay  from  the  shut  and 

darkened  lid, 
For  life  is  a  blindfold  game,  and  the  Voice  from  view 

is  hid. 

I  face  him  as  best  I  can,  still  groping,  here  and  there, 
For  the  hand  that  has  touched  me  lightly,  the  lips  that 

have  said,  "  Declare  !  " 
Well,  I  declare  him  my  friend,  —  the   friend  of  the 

whole  sad  race ; 
And  oh,  that  the  game  were  over,  and  I  might  see  his 

face! 
But  't  is  much,  though  I  grope  in  blindness,  the  Voice 

that  is  hid  from  view 
May  be  heard,  may  be  even  loved,  in  a  dream  that 

may  come  true. 


WIEGENLIED 

BE  still  and  sleep,  my  soul  ! 

Now  gentle-footed  Night, 
In  softly  shadowed  stole, 

Holds  all  the  day  from  sight. 

Why  shouldst  thou  lie  and  stare 
Against  the  dark,  and  toss, 

And  live  again  thy  care, 
Thine  agony  and  loss  ? 

'T  was  given  thee  to  live, 
And  thou  hast  lived  it  all ; 

Let  that  suffice,  nor  give 

One  thought  what  may  befall. 

Thou  hast  no  need  to  wake, 

Thou  art  no  sentinel ; 
Love  all  the  care  will  take, 

And  Wisdom  watcheth  well. 

Weep  not,  think  not,  but  rest  ! 

The  stars  in  silence  roll ; 
On  the  world's  mother-breast, 

Be  still  and  sleep,  my  soul  ! 


SIBYLLINE    BARTERING 

FATE,  the  gray  Sibyl,  with  kind  eyes  above 

Closely  locked  lips,  brought  youth  a  merry  crew 

Of  proffered  friends  ;  the  price,  self-slaying  love. 
Proud  youth  repulsed  them.     She  and  they  with 
drew. 

Then  she  brought  half  the  troop ;  the  cost,  the  same. 
•    My  man's  heart  wavered  :  should  I  take  the  few, 
And  pay  the  whole  ?    But  while  I  went  and  came, 
Fate  had  decided.    She  and  they  withdrew. 

Once  more  she  came,  with  two.  Now  life's  midday 
Left  fewer  hours  before  me.  Lonelier  grew 

The  house  and  heart.  But  should  the  late  purse  pay 
The  earlier  price  ?  And  she  and  they  withdrew. 

At  last  I  saw  Age  his  forerunners  send. 

Then  came  the  Sibyl,  still  with  kindly  eyes 
And  close-locked  lips, and  offered  me  one  friend,— 

Thee,  my  one  darling  !  With  what  tears  and  cries 

I  claimed  and  claim  thee ;   ready  now  to  pay 
The  perfect  love  that  leaves  no  self  to  slay  ! 


THE   AGILE   SONNETEER 

How  facile  't  is  to  frame  the  sonnet !   See  : 

An  "  apt  alliteration  "  at  the  start ; 

Phrase  fanciful,  turned  t'other-end-to  with  art ; 
And  then  a  rhyme  makes  first  and  fourth  agree. 
Re  words  enough  —  so  this  next  quatrain  we 

Will  therefore  rhyme  to  match.    Here  sometimes 
"  heart  " 

Comes  in,  as  "  hot  "  or  "  throbbing  "  to  impart 
A  tang  of  sentiment  to  our  idee. 
Then  the  sextette,  wherein  there  strictly  ought 

To  be  a  kind  of  winding  up  of  things  ; 
Only  two  rhymes  (to  have  it  nicely  wrought) 

On  which  it  settles,  lark-like,  as  it  sings. 

And  so  't  is  perfect,  head  and  tail  and  wings. 
"  Lacks  something  ?  "  Oh,  as  usual,  but  a  thought. 


MOMENTOUS   WORDS 

WHAT  spiteful  chance  steals  unawares 

Wherever  lovers  come, 
And  trips  the  nimblest  brain  and  scares 

The  bravest  feelings  dumb  ? 

We  had  one  minute  at  the  gate, 

Before  the  others  came  ; 
To-morrow  it  would  be  too  late, 

And  whose  would  be  the  blame  ! 

I  gazed  at  her,  she  glanced  at  me  ; 

Alas  !   the  time  sped  by  : 
u  How  warm  it  is  to-day  !  "  said  she ; 
"  It  looks  like  rain, "  said  I. 


THE    CRICKETS    IN   THE    FIELDS 

ONE,  or  a  thousand  voices  ?  — filling  noon 
With  such  an  undersong  and  drowsy  chant 

As  sings  in  ears  that  waken  from  a  swoon, 

And   know  not   yet   which  world   such   murmurs 

haunt : 
Single,  then  double  beats,  reiterant ; 

Far  off  and  near ;  one  ceaseless,  changeless  tune. 

If  bird  or  breeze  awake  the  dreamy  will, 
We  lose  the  song,  as  it  had  never  been  ; 

Then  suddenly  we  find  't  is  singing  still 

And  had  not  ceased.  —  So,  friend  of  mine,  within 
My  thoughts  one  underthought,  beneath  the  din 

Of  life,  doth  every  quiet  moment  fill. 

Thy  voice  is  far,  thy  face  is  hid  from  me, 

But  day  and  night  are  full  of  dreams  of  thee. 


ALONE 

STILL  earth  turns  and  pulses  stir, 
And  each  day  hath  its  deed ; 

But  if  I  be  dead  to  her, 
What  is  the  life  I  lead  ? 

Cares  the  cuckoo  for  the  wood, 
When  the  red  leaves  are  down  ? 

Stays  the  robin  near  the  brood, 

When  they  are  fledged  and  flown  ? 

Yea,  we  live  ;  the  common  air 
To  both  its  bounty  brings. 

Mockery  !  Can   the  absent  share 
The  half-forgotten  things  ? 

Barren  comfort  fancy  doles 

To  him  that  truly  sees  ; 
Sullen  Earth  can  sever  souls 

Far  as  the  Pleiades. 

Take  thy  toys,  stepmother  Earth,  — 
Take  force  of  limb  and  brain  ; 

All  thy  gifts  are  little  worth, 
Till  her  I  find  again. 


390  ALONE 

Grass  may  spring  and  buds  may  stir, 
Why  should  mine  eyes  take  heed  ? 

For  if  I  be  dead  to  her, 
Then  am  I  dead  indeed. 


BEFORE   SUNRISE    IN    WINTER 

A  PURPLE  cloud  hangs  half-way  down ; 

Sky,  yellow  gold  below  ; 
The  naked  trees,  beyond  the  town, 

Like  masts  against  it  show  — 

Bare  masts  and  spars  of  our  earth-ship, 
With  shining  snow-sails  furled ; 

And  through  the  sea  of  space  we  slip, 
That  flows  all  round  the  world. 


ILLUSION 

DAINTY  Buttercup,  my  bird, 

Dances  at  the  mirror,  stirred 

By  an  ecstasy  of  song  ; 

Tosses  wing,  pipes  loud  and  long ; 

For  this  new  mate,  breast  to  breast, 

Seems  of  golden  birds  the  best. 

Ah,  my  foolish  little  love, 
Just  such  fantasy  doth  move 
Your  sweet  spirit,  when  you  find 
Treasure  in  my  heart  or  mind  ; 
*T  is  not  anything  in  me  — 
'T  is  your  image  that  you  see  ! 


THE    POET'S    POLITICAL  ECONOMY 

THE  round  earth  bears  him  without  pay, 
Heaven  brings  sweet  air  to  breathe, 

Unto  his  brain  each  dying  day 
Soft  slumber  doth  bequeathe  ; 

Clear  water  runs  in  the  mountain  stream, 

And  sun  gives  glow,  and  star  gives  gleam. 

O  tiller  of  the  wheat-land,  give  — 
O  miller  by  the  brook-strand,  give  — 
O  shepherd,  of  thy  fleeces  give 
The  little  that  he  needs  to  live. 

He  will  never  do  ye  wrong, 
But  pay  in  ringing  gold  of  song. 


A   SUBTLETY 

THEY  were  lovers  when  they  wed. 

Now  some  slight  he  showed  to  her 
For  another.     Then  she  said, 

"  Has  it  come  that  you  prefer 

Other  women's  good  to  mine  ?  " 

"  You  and  I  are  one,"  quoth  he ; 
u  'T  is  self-sacrifice,  in  fine, 
To  deny  my  other  Me." 

Silently  she  turns  away, 

Hiding  tears  that  almost  come. 

In  her  heart  I  hear  her  say, 
"  Charity  begins  at  home." 


THE    DIFFERENCE 

IN  the  morning  the  flowers  blossomed 

All  about  my  feet  : 
I  did  not  stop  to  pick  them, 

I  scarcely  knew  them  sweet. 

Now  in  the  dusky  twilight 
Seeking  with  wistful  care, 

Not  many  I  discover, 
And  very  few  are  fair. 


A   SONG    IN    THE    AFTERNOON 

COME,  and  let  's  grow  old, 

And  let 's  grow  old  together  ! 
Boyhood's  heart  was  wondrous  bold, 

And  light  as  any  feather, 
Rollicking  and  frolicking 

In  every  wind  and  weather  ; 
But  come  now,   let 's  grow  old, 

And  let 's  grow  old  together ! 

Come  and  let 's  be  leal 

And  true  to  one  another  ! 
Boys  are  fickle ;  as  they  feel, 

So  they  do  ;   love  this  and  t'other ; 
Borrowing  or  sorrowing 

With  any  man  and  brother  ; 
But  come  now,  let  's  be  leal 

And  true  to  one  another ! 

Come,  and  let  's  be  wise, 

And  wag  our  heads  sedately  ! 

Cooler  breezes  clear  the  skies, 
And  sight  is  lengthened  greatly. 

Jolly  days  were  folly  days  ; 
We  doff  the  motley  lately. 


A    SONG    IN    THE   AFTERNOON    397 

So  come  now,  let 's  be  wise, 
And  wag  our  heads  sedately ! 

Come  then,  and  let 's  grow  old, 

So  we  grow  old  together ! 
Wits  are  thin  o'er  apple  chin, 

Long  beards  give  length  of  tether. 
Spring  may  yearn,  and  summer  burn, 

Your  fall 's  the  finest  weather. 
So  come  now,  let's  grow  old, 

And  let 's  grow  old  together  ! 


A   SUPPLICATION 

MOTHER,  O  fair  earth-mother  ! 

Let  not  the  hand  of  any  other 

Than  thine  own  self,  most  wise  and  mild 

Take  the  life  of  thy  child. 

Let  not  mine  own  folly, 

Or  murderous  melancholy 

Senseless  and  wild, 

Or  the  blow  of  a  madman's  arm, 

Do  me  that  final  harm. 

Let  rather  one  of  thy  great  cliffs  that  fall 

Bury  me  underneath  its  wall ; 

Or  thine  enormous  sea 

Sweep  over  me. 

Whenever  and  however  comes  that  day, 

Take  thou  my  life  away. 

So  shall  I  seem  to  be  a  part 

Of  all  thou  art ; 

Mated  with  every  noble  natural  form 

Of  thine  eternal  power  ; 

A  brother  of  the  storm, 

One  kindred  with  the  mountain  and  the  flower. 


SPACE 

BLACK,  frost-cold  distance,  sparsely  honeycombed 
With  hollow  shells  of  glimmering  golden  light ; 
Mere  amber  bubbles  floating  through  the  night, 
Lit  by  one  centred  sparkle,  azure-domed, 
With    circling    motes    where    life    hath    lodged    and 
roamed. 


ONE  TOUCH    OF   NATURE 

CRUEL  and  wild  the  battle: 

Great  horses  plunged  and  reared, 

And  through  dust-cloud  and  smoke-cloud. 

Blood-red  with  sunset's  angry  flush, 

You  heard  the  gun-shots  rattle, 

And,  'mid  hoof-tramp  and  rush, 

The  shrieks  of  women  speared. 

For  it  was  Russ  and  Turcoman,  — 

No  quarter  asked  or  given  ; 

A  whirl  of  frenzied  hate  and  death 

Across  the  desert  driven. 

Look  !   the  half-naked  horde  gives  way, 

Fleeing  frantic  without  breath, 

Or  hope,  or  will  ;  and  on  behind 

The  troopers  storm,  in  blood-thirst  blind, 

While,  like  a  dreadful  fountain-play, 

The  swords  flash  up,  and  fall,  and  slay  — 

Wives,  grandsires,  baby  brows  and  gray, 

Groan  after  groan,  yell  upon  yell  — 

Are  men  but  fiends,  and  is  earth  hell  ? 

Nay,  for  out  of  the  flight  and  fear 
Spurs  a  Russian  cuirassier; 


ONE   TOUCH    OF   NATURE         401 

In  his  arms  a  child  he  bears. 

Her  little  foot  bleeds ;  stern  she  stares 

Back  at  the  ruin  of  her  race. 

The  small  hurt  creature  sheds  no  tear, 

Nor  utters  cry ;  but  clinging  still 

To  this  one  arm  that  does  not  kill, 

She  stares  back  with  her  baby  face. 

Apart,  fenced  round  with  ruined  gear, 
The  hurrying  horseman  finds  a  space, 
Where,  with  face  crouched  upon  her  knee, 
A  woman  cowers.     You  see  him  stoop 
And  reach  the  child  down  tenderly, 
Then  dash  away  to  join  his  troop. 

How  came  one  pulse  of  pity  there  — 
One  heart  that  would  not  slay,  but  save  — 
In  all  that  Christ-forgotten  sight  ? 
Was  there,  far  north  by  Neva's  wave, 
Some  Russian  girl  in  sleep-robes  white, 
Making  her  peaceful  evening  prayer, 
That  Heaven's  great  mercy  'neath  its  care 
Would  keep  and  cover  him  to-night  ? 


THE    COUP    DE    GRACE 

IF  I  were  very  sure 
That  all  was  over  betwixt  you  and  me  — 

That,  while  this  endless  absence  I  endure 
With  but  one  mood,  one  dream,  one  misery 
Of  waiting,  you  were  happier  to  be  free, — 

Then   I  might  find  again 
In  cloud  and  stream  and  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

Yea,  even  in  the  faces  of  my  fellow-men, 
The  old  companionship ;  and  I  might  know 
Once  more  the  pulse  of  action,  ere  I  go. 

But  now  I  cannot  rest, 
While  this  one  pleading,  querulous  tone  without 

Breaks  in  and  mars  the  music  in  my  breast. 
I  open  the  closed  door  —  lo  !   all  about, 
What  seem  your  lingering  footprints ;  then  I  doubt. 

Waken  me  from  this  sleep  ! 
Strike  fearless,  let  the  naked  truth-edge  gleam  ! 

For  while  the  beautiful  old  past  I  keep, 
I  am  a  phantom,  and  all  mortals  seem 
But  phantoms,  and  my  life  fades  as  a  dream. 


APPRECIATED 

"  AH,  could  I  but  be  understood  ! : 
(I  prayed  the  powers  above), 

"  Could  but  some  spirit,  bright  and  good, 
Know  me,  and,  knowing,  love  !  " 

One  summer's  day  there  came  to  pass  - 

A  maid  ;  and  it  befell 
She  spied  and  knew  me  :   yea,  alas  ! 

She  knew  me  all  too  well. 

Gray  were  the  eyes  of  Rosamund, 

And  I  could  see  them  see 
Through  and  through  me,  and  beyond, 

And  care  no  more  for  me. 


ROLAND 

A  FOOLISH  creature  full  of  fears, 

He  trembled  for  his  fate, 
And  stood  aghast  to  feel  the  earth 

Swing  round  her  dizzy  freight. 

With  timid  foot  he  touched  each  plan, 
Sure  that  each  plan  would  fail; 

Behemoth's  tread  was  his,  it  seemed, 
And  every  bridge  too  frail. 

No  glory  of  the  night  or  day 

Lit  any  crown  for  him, 
The  tranquil  past  but  breathed  a  mist 

To  make  the  future  dim. 

The  world,  his  birthright,  seemed  a  cell, 

An  iron  heritage ; 
Man,  a  trapped  creature,  left  to  die 

Forgotten  in  his  cage. 

In  every  dark  he  held  his  breath 

And  warded  off  a  blow  ; 
While  at  his  shoulder  still  he  sought 

Some  tagging  ghost  of  woe. 


ROLAND  405 

Spying  the  thorns  but  not  the  flowers, 
Through  all  the  blossoming  land 

He  hugged  his  careful  heart  and  shunned 
The  path  on  either  hand. 

The  buds  that  broke  their  hearts  to  give 

New  odors  to  the  air 
He  saw  not ;  but  he  caught  the  scent 

Of  dead  leaves  everywhere. 

Till  on  a  day  he  came  to  know 

He  had  not  made  the  world ; 
That  if  he  slept,  as  when  he  ran, 

Each  onward  planet  whirled. 

He  knew  not  where  the  vision  fell, 

Only  all  things  grew  plain  — 
As  if  some  thatch  broke  through  and  let 

A  sunbeam  cross  his  brain. 

In  beauty  flushed  the  morning  light, 
With  blessing  dropped  the  rain, 

All  creatures  were  to  him  most  fair, 
Nor  anything  in  vain. 

He  breathed  the  space  that  links  the  stars, 

He  rested  on  God's  arm  — 
A  man  unmoved  by  accident, 

Untouched  by  any  harm. 


406  ROLAND 

The  weary  doubt  if  all  is  good, 
The  doubt  if  all  is  ill, 

He  left  to  Him  who  leaves  to  us 
To  know  that  all  is  well. 


CLOUD    TRACERY 

WHAT  wind  from  what  celestial  wood  hath  sown 
Such  delicate  seed  as  springs  in  air,  and  turns 
The  blue  heaven-garden  to  a  bed  of  ferns 
In  feathery  cloud  ?    They  are  not  tossed,  or  blown 

To  such  wild  shapes,  but  motionless  they  ride, 
Like  a  celestial  frost-work  on  the  pane 
Of  our  sky-window,  where  the  breath  has  lain 
Of  the  pure  cold  upon  the  thither  side. 

They  are  but  pencil  touches,  soft  and  light, 
Traced  faintly  under  some  magnetic  spell 
By  an  entranced  spirit,  that  would  write 

Hints  of  heaven-language  efe  the  soul's  release,  — 

Dim  outlines  of  the  syllables  that  tell 

Of  words  like  faith,  and  confidence,  and  peace. 


THE  LIFE   NATURAL 

OVERHEAD  the  leaf-song,  on  the  upland  slope ; 
Over  that  the  azure,  clean  from  base  to  cope ; 
Belle  the  mare  beside  me,  drowsy  from  her  lope. 

Goldy-green  the  wheat-field,  like  a  fluted  wall 

In  the  pleasant  wind,  with  waves  that  rise  and  fall, 

Moving  all  together,'*  if  it  "  move  at  all." 

Shakespeare  in  my  pocket,  lest  I  feel  alone, 
Lest  the  brooding  landscape  take  a  sombre  tone; 
Good  to  have  a  poet  to  fall  back  upon  ! 

But  the  vivid  beauty  makes  the  book  absurd  : 
What  beside  the  real  world  is  the  written  word  ? 
Keep  the  page  till  winter,  when  no  thrush  is  heard ! 

Why  read  Hamlet  here  ?  —  what 's  Hecuba  to  me  ? 
Let  me  read  the  grain-field ;  let  me  read  the  tree  ; 
Let  me  read  mine  own  heart,  deep  as  I  can  see. 


TO    THE    UNKNOWN    SOUL 

0  SOUL,  that  somewhere  art  my  very  kin, 
From  dusk  and  silence  unto  thee  I  call ! 

1  know  not  where  thou  dwellest :   if  within 

A  palace  or  a  hut ;  if  great  or  small 
Thy  state  and  store  of  fortune  ;  if  thou  'rt  sad 
This  moment,  or  most  glad ; 

The  lordliest  monarch  or  the  lowest  thrall. 

But  well  I  know  —  since  thou  'rt  my  counterpart  - 
Thou  bear'st  a  clouded  spirit ;   full  of  doubt 

And  old  misgiving,  heaviness  of  heart 

And  loneliness  of  mind  ;  long  wearied  out 

With  climbing  stairs  that  lead  to  nothing  sure, 

With  chasing  lights  that  lure, 

In  the  thick  murk  that  wraps  us  all  about. 

As  across  many  instruments  a  flute 

Breathes  low,  and  only  thrills  its  selfsame  tone, 
That  wakes  in  music  while  the  rest  are  mute, 

So  send  thy  voice  to  me  !    Then  I  alone 
Shall  hear  and  answer ;  and  we  two  will  fare 
Together,  and  each  bear 

Twin  burdens,  lighter  now  than  either  one. 


REPROOF   IN   LOVE 

BECAUSE  we  are  shut  out  from  light, 
Each  of  the  other's  look  and  smile  ; 

Because  the  arms'  and  lips'  delight 
Are  past  and  dead,  a  weary  while  ; 

Because  the  dawn,  that  joy  has  brought, 
Brings  now  but  certainty  of  pain, 

Nothing  for  yqu  and  me  has  bought 
The  right  to  live  our  lives  in  vain. 

Take  not  away  the  only  lure 

That  leads  me  on  my  lonely  way, 

To  know  you  noble,  sweet,  and  pure, 
Great  in  least  service,  day  by  day. 


EVEN   THERE 

A  TROOP  of  babes  in  Summer  Land, 

At  heaven's  gate  — the  children's  gate  : 

One  lifts  the  latch  with  rosy  hand, 

Then  turns  and,  dimpling,  asks  her  mate,— 

u  What  was  the  last  thing  that  you  saw  ? " 
"  I  lay  and  watched  the  dawn  begin, 
And  suddenly,  through  the  thatch  of  straw, 
A  great,  clear  morning  star  laughed  in." 

"  And  you  ?  "    "  A  floating  thistle-down, 

Against  June  sky  and  cloud-wings  white." 

"  And  you  ?  "    "  A  falling  blow,  a  frown  — 
It  frights  me  yet ;   oh,  clasp  me  tight !  " 

"  And  you  ?  "  "  A  face  through  tears  that  smiled  " 

The  trembling  lips  could  speak  no  more  ; 
The  blue  eyes  swam ;  the  lonely  child 
Was  homesick  even  at  heaven's  door. 


ON    SECOND    THOUGHT 

THE  end  's  so  near, 

It  is  all  one 
What  track  I  steer, 

What  work  's  begun. 

It  is  all  one 

If  nothing  's  done, 
The  end  's  so  near  ! 

The  end  's  so  near, 
It  is  all  one 

What  track  thou  steer, 
What  work  's  begun  — 
Some  deed,  some  plan, 
As  thou  'rt  a  man  ! 

The  end 's  so  near  ! 


INDEXES 


INDEX   OF   FIRST    LINES 


A  FOOLISH  creature  full  of  fears,  404. 
A    fountain    rusheth    upward    from 

God's  throne,  43. 
After  sleep,  the  waking,  196. 
A  group  of  artists  of  the  olden  time, 

3°- 
"Ah,  could  I  but  be  understood  !  " 

403. 
A  life —  a  common,   cleanly,  quiet 

life,  74. 

All  alone —  alone,  28. 
All    night,     beneath     the     flashing 

hosts  of  stars,  282. 
All  summer    let  me  lie    along    the 

grass,  352. 
All  the  skies  had  gloomed  in  gray, 

373- 

A  maid  upon  the  lonely  beach,    12. 
Am  I  not    weary  of  them  as   your 

heart,  350. 
A  month  since  I  last  laid   my  pencil 

down,  94.. 

A  moonlit  desert's  yellow  sands,  334. 
A     purple    cloud     hangs    half   way 

down,    391. 
A  sea  of  shade  ;  with  hollow  heights 

above,  272. 
A    sea    of  splendor    in    the    West, 

109. 
As  in    the  Spring,  ere   any  flowers 

have  come,  37. 
A  small,    swift   planet,    glimmering 

round  a  star,  52. 
As   one  who  reads  a  tale  writ  in  a 

tongue,  349. 


As  some  poor  child  whose   soul    is 

windowless,  242. 

As  some  poor  Indian  woman,  243. 
As  through    the   noon    the   reapers 

rest,  49. 

At  the  North,  far  away,  I. 
At  the  punch-bowl's  brink,  320. 
A  thunder-storm  of  the  olden    days 

287, 
A  tide   of  sun  and  song  in   beauty 

broke,  214, 

A  tiny,  blue-eyed,  elfin  lass,  149. 
A  troop  of  babes  in  Summer  Land, 

411. 
"  Away  !    Let  not    mine    eyes,   my 

heart,  behold  you  !  "  356. 
A  wilderness,  made  awful  with  the 

night,  71. 

Because  we  are  shut  out  from   light, 

410. 
Before  the  monstrous  wrong  he  sets 

him  down,  311. 
Be  still  and  sleep,  my  soul,  384. 
Be  true  to  me  !  For  there  will  dawn 

a  day,  365. 
Black,    frost-cold    distance,    sparsely 

honeycombed,  399. 
Black  the  storming  ocean,  crests  that 

leap  and  whelm,  368. 
Blindest    and    most    frantic    prayer, 

286. 
Born  of  the  shadows  that   it  passes 

through,  20 1. 
Brook,  be  still,  —  be  still !  73. 


4i6 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Bury  it,  and  sift,  129. 
By  the  wild  fence-row,  all  grown  up, 
297. 

Can    this  be    Christmas  —  sweet  as 

May,  236. 

Clear  water  on  smooth  rock,  134. 
Cold  —  cold  —  the    very   sun    looks 

cold,  117. 

Come,  and  let 's  grow  old,  396. 
Couched  on  the  turf,  and  lying  mute 

and  still,  353. 
Cruel  and  wild  the  battle,  400. 

Dainty  Buttercup,  my  bird,  392. 
Dawn   has   blossomed  :    the    sun    is 

nigh,  348. 

Dead  !    And  the  echoes  dumb,  265. 
Dear    friends,  ask   not   from    me   a 

song,  262. 
Does  a  man   ever  give   up   hope,   I 

wonder,  325. 
Doubting  Thomas  and  loving  John, 

*34- 
Doubtless  the  linnet,  shut  within  its 

cage,  44. 

Down  in  its  crystal  hollow,  357. 
Dumb  and  still  was  the  heart  of  man, 

240. 

Every  house  with  its  garret,  151. 

Farewell  to  such  a  world  !  Too  long 

I  press,  341. 
Far     in    hollow    mountain    canons, 

142. 
Fate,  the  gray  Sibyl,  with  kind  eyes 

above,  385. 
Father  in   Heaven!     humbly  before 

thee,   153. 
Five    mites    of  monads    dwelt    in  a 

round  drop,  224. 


Forenoon  and  afternoon  and  night  — 
Forenoon,  133. 

Four  years  !  1 8. 

Fret  not  that  the  day  is  gone,  327. 

From  all  the  long,  bright  daytime's 
restlessness,  249. 

From  Athens,  Rome,  and  Asia,  375. 

From  the  scarlet  sea  of  sunset,  147. 

From  the  warm  garden  in  the  sum 
mer  night,  367. 

Go,  minister  of  God,  182. 
Growing  old,  and  looking  back,  371. 

Haste,  haste,  O  laggard  —  leave  thy 

drowsy  dreams  !  66. 
Has,  then,   our   boyhood  vanished, 

3*5- 

He   died  at   night.     Next  day  they 

came,  347. 
Here  at  last  to  part  —  the  darkness 

lying,  20. 
Hid   in   the  silence  of  a  forest  deep, 

255- 
His  wheel  of  logic  whirled  and   spun 

all  day,    370. 

Holding  apoise  in  air,  244. 
Hope  builded  herself  a  palace,  204. 
How  facile  't  is  to  frame  the  sonnet  ! 

See,    386. 
How   the    dull    thought    smites   me 

dumb,  340. 
Hushed  within  her  quiet  bed,  119. 

I  blow  the   organ  at  St.  Timothy's, 

179. 

I  entered  once,  at  break  of  day,  3. 
If  I  were  very  sure,  402. 
If  quiet  autumn  mornings  would  not 

come,  323. 
If  there  is  naught  but  what  we  see, 

198. 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


I  know  a  spot  beneath  three  ancient 
trees,  67. 

I  know  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 
136. 

I  lay  awake  and  listened,  ere  the 
light,  344 

I  looked  across  the  lawn  one  sum 
mer's  day,  326. 

I  looked  in  a  dew-drop's  heart  to 
day,  114, 

I  never  know  why  't  is  I  love  thee 
so,  274. 

In  the  deep  night  a  little  bird,  324. 

In  the  morning  the  flowers  blos 
somed,  395. 

I  said,  "Blue  heaven"  (Oh,  it 
was  beautiful  !  ),  178 

I  stood  in  sombre  dreaming,  345. 

It    comes   upon   me  in   the    woods, 

«93- 

It  is  no  harmony  of  human  making, 

127. 

It  is  not  death  I  mean,  312. 
It     was    ever    so    many    years   ago, 

162. 
I   waited  in  the   little  sunny  room, 

3I4- 

June's  sunshine  on  the  broad  porch 

shines,  146. 
Just  where  the  street  of  the  village 

ends,  no. 

Lend  me  thy  fillet,  Love  !  309. 
Let  us  return  once  more,   we  said, 

278. 
"  Love  me,  or  I  am  slain  !  "  I  cried, 

and  meant,  310. 

Mornings  were  there,  richer  than  of 

Eastern  story,  19. 
Mother,  O  fair  earth-mother!    398. 


My    peace    thou  art,    thou    art    my 

rest,  355. 
My  tower  was  grimly  builded,  227. 

Night  in  the  woods,— night,  369. 
Not  a  dread  cavern,  hoar  with  damp 

and  mould,  232. 
Not  all  which  we  have  been,  22. 

O  Forest-Mother,  I  have  stayed, 
250. 

Often  when  the  night  is  come,  321. 

O  God,  our  Father,  if  we  had  but 
truth,  145. 

O  hours  of  Yale  —  vanished  hours  ! 
18. 

Oh  that  one  could  arise  and  flee,  26. 

Once  he  cried  to  all  the  hills  and 
waters,  253. 

Once,  in  a  dream,  in  a  bleak,  sea- 
blown  land,  192. 

One  morning,  in  a  Prince's  park,  39. 

One   morning  of  a   summer's   day, 

I57. 

One,  or  a  thousand  voices?  —  filling 
noon,  388. 

Only  so  much  of  power  each  day,  70. 

O  soul,  that  somewhere  art  my  very 
kin,  409. 

Overhead  the  leaf-song,  on  the  up 
land  slope,  408. 

"  O  world,  O  glorious  world,  good- 
by!  "  245. 

Poor  wretch  !  that  smites,  in  his 
despair  insane,  354. 

Send  down  thy  truth,  O  God  !  159. 
"  Sent  out,  was  I,  to  turn  the  sod  ?  " 

186. 

Silly  bird!  332. 
Singing  in  the  rain,  robin?  124. 


418 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


Sing   me,    thou    Singer,  a    song    of 

gold!  135. 
Sky    in    its    lucent    splendor    lifted, 

154- 

Slender  spars  and  snowy  wings,  258. 
So   you    have   wondered    at    me,  — 

guessed  in  vain,  364. 
Still     earth     turns    and    pulses    stir, 

389- 

The  Angel  with  the  Book,  380. 
The  bliss  that   happy   lovers   dream 

will  bloom,  353. 
The  brave  old  motto,"  Seem  not  — 

only  be,"    138. 
The  cold,  hard  sky  and  hidden  sun, 

122. 

The  end  's  so  near,  412. 

The    green    was    all    with    shadpws 

blent,  267. 
The  letter  came  at  last     I  carried  it, 

S^S- 
The  little  rim  of  moon  hangs  low  — 

the  room,  9. 
The    marble-smith,   at   his   morning 

task,  248 
The  pleasant  path  of  youth  that   we 

have  ranged,  23 
There    fell    a    vision    to    Praxiteles, 

290. 
The  round  earth   bears    him  without 

Pay,  393- 
The  royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  King, 

275. 

The  shadow  of  a  bird,  148. 
The  "  sobbing  wind,"  the  "  weeping 

rain, "318. 

The  stars  know  a  secret,  3  60. 
The  star,  so    pure   in   saintly  white, 

219. 
The    Sun    is   gone  :     those    glorious 

chariot  wheels,  125. 


The  thrush  sings  high  on  the  top 
most  bough,  247. 

The  tree-top,  high  above  the  barren 
field,  8. 

The  world  runs  round,  336. 

They  think  me  daft,  who  nightly 
meet,  120. 

They  were    lovers   when   they  wed, 

394- 
This    1   beheld,  or  dreamed  it   in  a 

dream,  277. 
This  is  not  winter  :  where  is  the  crisp 

air,  307. 

Thou  pitiless,  false  sea  !  140. 
'T  is  just  the  day  to  hear  good  news, 

229. 

'T  is  not  in  seeking,  233 
"  To-day,"  I  thought,  "  I  will  not 

plan  nor  strive,"  381. 
To  the  mother  of  the  world,  202. 
Truth  cut  on  high  in  tablets  of  hewn 

stone,  144. 
'T  was  Sabbath  ;  and,  with  clang  on 

clang,  1 60. 
Two  craggy   slopes,  sheer  down   on 

either  hand,  328. 
Two  souls,  whose   bodies  sate   them 

on  a  hill,  222. 

Under  a  fragrant  blossom-bell,  3  3 . 
Under  the  stars,  across  whose  patient 

eyes,  5. 
Upon  the  barren,  lonely  hill,  131. 

Walk    who    will    at    deep   of   noon, 

366. 
Was  there  last  night   a   snowstorm  ? 

ii  i. 
We  are  living  a  game  of  chess,  dear 

May,  50. 
Weary,   and   marred   with   care  and 

pain,  190. 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


419 


Well,  the  world   is   before  us,  —  let 

us  go  forth  and  live,  23. 
Were  it  not  horrible  ?  27. 
Were    there    no    crowns  on    earth, 

61. 
We  sailed  a  cruise  on  a  summer  sea, 

16. 
What  am  I  glad  will  stay  when  I  have 

passed,  216. 
What  cared  she  for  the  free  hearts  ? 

She  would  comfort,  1 76. 
What  do  we  know  of  the  world,  as 

we  grow  so  old  and  wise  ?  382. 
What   if  some  morning,  when    the 

stars  were  paling,  346. 
What  is  the  truth  to  believe,  362. 
What   may   we   take  into  the   vast 

Forever  ?  58. 
What  need  have  I  to  fear  —  so  soon 

to  die  ?  331. 


What  spiteful  chance  steals  unawares, 

387. 
What    were    the    garden-bowers    of 

Thebes  to  me  ?  46. 
What  wind  from  what  celestial  wood 

hath  sown,  407. 
When  is  it  Spring  ?  When  spirits  rise, 

188. 
When  I   was    yet  but    a    child,  the 

gardener  gave  me  a  tree,  284. 
When   the  low  music  makes  a  dusk 

of  sound,  246. 

Whether 't  was  in  that  dome  of  even 
ing  sky,  221. 
White  in  her  snowy  stone,  and  cold, 

322. 
Why  need  I  seek  some  burden  small 

to  bear,  212. 

Yes,  I  know  what  you  say,  359. 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 


ADAGE  from  the  Orient,  An,  320. 

Agile  Sonneteer,  The,  386. 

Alone,  389. 

Among  the  Redwoods,  341. 

Ancient  Error,  An,  318. 

Anna,  To  Child,  37, 

Answer,  An,  262. 

Appreciated,  403. 

April  in  Oakland,   ill. 

Arch,  The,   1 10. 

Aspiration,  An,  278. 

At  Dawn,  344. 

At  Early  Morn,  366. 

At  Last,  249. 

Before  Sunrise  in  Winter,  391. 
Bellows-Boy,  The,  179 
Bird  in  Winter,  A  Dead,   122. 
Bird,  The  Lost,  176. 
Bird's  Song,  A,  148. 
Blindfold,  382. 
Blotted  Page,  The,  380. 
Book  of  Hours,  The,  349. 
But  for  Him,  240 

Californian's  Dreams,  A,  287. 

California  Winter,  307, 

Carpe  Diem,  340. 

Child  and  a  Star,  A,  219. 

Choice,  The,  70 

Christmas  in  California,  236. 

Class  Song,  1864,  49. 

Clocks     of     Gnoster-Town,     The, 

162. 
Cloud,  A  Drifting,  201. 


Cloud,  The,  353 

Cloud  Tracery,  407. 

Commencement  Poem,  18. 

Coup  de  Grace,  The,  402. 

Creation,  The,  43. 

Crickets  in  the  Fields,  The,  388. 

Daily  Miracle,  A,  146. 

Dare  You  ?  234. 

Dead  Bird  in  Winter,  A,  122. 

Dead  Letter,  The,  323 

Dead  President,  The,  61. 

Departure  of  the  Pilot,  The,  258. 

Deserter,  The,  286. 

Desire  of  Sleep,  312. 

Despair  and  Hope,  16. 

Difference,  The,  395. 

Discontent,  26. 

Dream-Doomed,  12. 

Dream  within  a  Dream,  A,  267, 

Drifting  Cloud,  A,  201. 

Eastern  Winter,  117. 
Even  There,  411. 
Evening,  125. 
Every-day  Life,  248. 
Eve's  Daughter,  314 

Fable,  A,  39. 

Face  at  a  Concert,  To  a,  246. 

Faith,  8. 

Fertility,  134. 

Field  Notes,  297. 

First  Cause,  The,  44. 

Five  Lives,  224. 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


421 


Foolish  Wish,  A,  212. 

Fool's  Prayer,  The,  275. 

Force,  360. 

Forest  Home,  250. 

For  the  Gifts  of  the  Spirit,  159. 

Foster-Mother,  The,  240. 

Fountain,  The,  27. 

Four  Pictures,  The,  30. 

Four     Sonnets     from    Sully     Prud- 

homme,  352. 
Fulfillment,  373. 
Future,  The,  58. 

Game  of  Life,  The,  50. 

Gifts  of  the  Spirit,  For  the,  159. 

Good  News,  229. 

Her  Explanation,  364. 

Her  Face,  345. 

Hermione,  322. 

HERMITAGE,    AND    OTHER    POEMS, 

THE,  74 

Hermitage,  The,  74. 
His  Lost  Day,  371. 
His  Neighbor  as  Himself,  368. 
Home,  67. 

House  and  the  Heart,  The,  151. 
Hymn  of  Hope,  A,  315. 

Illusion,  392. 

In  a  Far  Country,  192. 

Infirmity,  362. 

Influences,  147. 

Influences,  323. 

In  Memory  of  a  Musician,  265. 

In  Separation,  353. 

Invisible,  The,  198. 

Is  it  Safe  ?  222. 

L' Amour  Assassine,  354. 
LATER  POEMS,  346, 
Life,  133. 


ife,  The  Game  of,  50, 
Life  Natural,  The,  408. 

inks  of  Chance,  The,  244. 
Living,  381. 
Lost  Bird,  The,  176, 
Lost  Love,  129. 
Lost  Magic,  The,  322. 

over's  Song,  The,  309. 

Maid  Demure,  To  a,  321. 
Man,  the  Spirit,  52. 
Vlemory,  A,  131. 
Midnight,  5. 

Mir  aus  den  Augen,  356. 
VIomentous  Words,  387. 
VIoods,  348. 
Morning,  3. 

Morning  Thought,  A,  346. 
Music,  9. 

My  Peace  thou  art,  355. 
Mystery,The,  274. 
Myth  of  Fantasy  and  First  Love,  A, 
255. 

Nature  and  her  Child,  242. 
News-Girl,  The,  149. 
New  Year,  The,  182. 
Night  and  Peace,  369. 
North  Wind,  The,  282. 

On  a  Picture  of  Mt.  Shasta  by  Keith, 

328. 

One  Touch  of  Nature,  400. 
On  Second  Thought,  412. 
Open  Window,  The,  227 
Opportunity,  277. 
Oracle,  The,  357. 
Organ,  The,  127. 

Paradox,  A,  66. 
Peace,  233. 
Philosopher,  The,  370. 


422 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


Picture  of  the  World,  The,  157. 
POEMS    WRITTEN    BETWEEN     1862 

AND  1867,  33. 
POEMS    WRITTEN    BETWEEN     1867 

AND    1872,    148. 

POEMS    WRITTEN    BETWEEN     1872 

AND  1880,  216. 
Poet's  Apology,  A,  144. 
Poet's  Political  Economy,  The,  393. 
Polar  Sea,  The,  I. 
Prayer,  A,   145. 
Prayer  for  Peace,  A,  153. 
President,  The  Dead,  61. 

* '  Quern  Metui  Moritura  ?  "  331. 

Recall,  310. 

Reformer,  The,  311. 

Reply,  A,  202. 

Reproof  in  Love,  410. 

Resting-Place,  A,  272. 

Retrospect,  22. 

Return  to  Arcadia,  The,  375. 

Reverie,  221 . 

Roland,  404. 

Ruby  Heart,  The,  33. 

Sara,  To  Child,  114. 

Schoolhouse  Windows,  The,  204. 

Secret,  The,  214. 

Seeming  and  Being,  138. 

Semele,  46. 

Serenity,  73. 

Service,  327. 

Sibylline  Bartering,  385. 

Siesta,  352. 

Singer,  The,  332. 

Singer's  Confession,  The,  253. 

Sleeping,  119. 

Solitude,  28. 

Song  in  the  Afternoon,  A,  396. 


Song  in  the  Night,  The,  324. 

Space,  399. 

Spring,  1 8 8. 

Spring  Twilight,  124. 

Starlight,  120. 

Strange,  347. 

Subtlety,  A,  394. 

Summer  Afternoon,  142. 

Summer  Night,  367. 

Summer  Rain,  178. 

Sunday,  232. 

Sundown,  109. 

Supplication,  A,  398. 

Tempted,  359. 

Things  that  will  not  Die,  The,  216. 

Three  Songs,  135. 

Thrush,  The,  247. 

To  a  Face  at  a  Concert,  246. 

To  a  Maid  Demure,  321. 

To  Child  Anna,  37. 

To  Child  Sara,  114. 

To  "The  Radical,"   196 

To  the  Unknown  Soul,  409. 

Tranquillity,  190. 

TRANSLATIONS,  352. 

Tree  of  my  Life,  The,  284. 

Tropical  Morning  at  Sea,  A,  154. 

Truant,  The,  186,, 

Truth  at  Last,  325. 

Two  Views  of  It,  245. 

Two  Ways,  The,   160. 

UNDERGRADUATE  AND  EARLY  POEMS, 

Unknown  Soul,  To  the,  409. 
Untimely  Thought,  326. 

VENUS  of  MILO,    THE,  AND  OTHER 

POEMS,  290. 
Venus  of  Milo,  The,  290. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


423 


Warning,  365. 
Weather-Bound,  140. 
Wiegenlied,  384. 
Wisdom  and  Fame,  71. 
Wish,  A  Foolish,  212. 


Wonderful  Thought,  The,  193. 
"  Words,  Words,  Words,"  350. 
Wordsworth,  334. 
World  runs  Round,  The,  336. 
World's  Secret,  The,  136. 


Electrotype d  and  printed  by  H .  O.  Houghton  &*  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


I 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 



ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

JAN  2  6  2001 


12,000(11/95) 


